rjK1ffi5ni$iHHiF«niiFii^ 


LIBRARY 

University  of 

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ANSON-AND 
ANITA  BLAKE 


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A  BOOK  OF  FAMOUS  VERSE.  Selected 
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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   &   CO. 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


IN  THE   DOZY  HOURS 

AND  OTHER  PAPERS 

BY 

AGNES    REPPLIER 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIX  AND  COMPANY 

<<Cf)c  ftitcrsi&e  tyiefa  Cambnbgc 
1899 


Copyright,  1894, 
BY  AGNES  REPPLIER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


SEVENTH    IMTRESSION 


T/ie  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.  U.  S.  A. 
Klectrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  ().  Houghton  &  Co. 


TO 

ANNIS  LEE  WISTEK 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

IN  THE  DOZY  HOURS 1 

A  KITTKN 1(5 

AT  THE  NOVELIST'S  TABLE i!2 

IN  BEHALF  OF  PARENTS 42 

AUT    C.ESAR,    AUT    NlHIL f)i) 

A  NOTE  ON  MIRRORS 7<> 

GIFTS 85 

HUMOR  :  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  ...         94 

THE  DISCOMFORTS  OF  LUXURY  :  A  SPECULATION      .  112 
LECTURES  .........       1^;J 

REVIEWERS  AND  REVIEWED l;!7 

PASTELS  :  A  QUERY 15:> 

GUESTS  ..........  ir>8 

SYMPATHY  .........       Kio 

OPINIONS 17(5 

THE  CHILDREN'S  AGE 1!)U 

A  FORGOTTEN   POET 20  L 

DIALOGUES 211 

A  CURIOUS  CONTENTION         ......  217 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  ESSAY      .  226 


IN  THE  DOZY  HOURS,  AND 
OTHER  PAPERS. 


IN  THE  DOZY  HOURS. 

"  MONTAIGNE  and  Howell's  letters,"  says 
Thackeray,  "  are  my  bedside  books.  If  I  wake 
at  night,  I  have  one  or  other  of  them  to  prat- 
tle me  to  sleep  again.  They  talk  about  them- 
selves forever,  and  don't  weary  me.  I  like  to 
hear  them  tell  their  old  stories  over  and  over 
again.  I  read  them  in  the  dozy  hoiirs,  and 
only  half  remember  them." 

In  the  frank  veracity  of  this  last  confession 
there  lies  a  pleasant  truth  which  it  is  whole- 
some to  hear  from  such  excellent  and  undis- 
puted authority.  Many  people  have  told  us 
about  the  advantage  of  remembering  what  we 
read,  and  have  imparted  severe  counsels  as  to 
ways  and  means.  Thackeray  and  Charles 
Lamb  alone  have  ventured  to  hint  at  the  equal 
delight  of  forgetting,  and  of  returning  to  some 
well-loved  volume  with  recollections  softened 


2  7.V    THE    DOZY   HOUR*. 

into  an  agreeable  haze.  Lamb,  indeed,  with 
characteristic  impatience,  sighed  for  the  waters 
of  Lethe  that  he  might  have  more  than  his 
due ;  that  he  might  grasp  a  double  portion  of 
those  serene  pleasures  of  which  his  was  no 
niggardly  share.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had  read  all 
the  books  I  want  to  read,"  he  wrote  disconso- 
lately to  Bernard  Barton.  "  Oh !  to  forget 
Fielding,  Steele,  etc.,  and  read  'em  new!  " 

This  is  a  wistful  fancy  in  which  many  of  us 
have  had  our  share.  There  come  moments  of 
doubt  and  discontent  when  even  a  fresh  novel 
fills  us  with  shivery  apprehensions.  We  pick 
it  up  reluctantly,  and  look  at  it  askance,  as 
though  it  were  a  dose  of  wholesome  medicine. 
We  linger  sadly  for  a  moment  on  the  brink ; 
and  then,  warm  in  our  hearts,  comes  the  mem- 
ory of  happier  hours  when  we  first  read  "  Guy 
Mannering,"  or  "The  Scarlet  Letter,"  or  "Per- 
suasion ; "  when  we  first  forgot  the  world  in 
"  David  Copperfield,"  or  raced  at  headlong 
speed,  with  tingling  veins  and  bated  breath, 
through  the  marvelous  "  Woman  in  White." 
Alas !  why  were  we  so  ravenous  in  our  youth  ? 
Like  the  Prodigal  Son,  we  consumed  all  our 
fortune  in  a  few  short  years,  and  now  the 


7.V    THE    DOZY    HOUJtti.  ,'i 

husks,  though  very  excellent  husks  indeed,  and 
highly  recommended  for  their  nourishing  and 
stimulating  qualities  by  the  critic  doctors  of 
the  day,  seem  to  our  jaded  tastes  a  trifle  dry 
and  savorless.  If  only  we  could  forget  the 
old,  beloved  books,  and  "  read  'em  new " ! 
With  many  this  is  not  possible,  for  the  impres- 
sion which  they  make  is  too  vivid  to  be  oblit- 
erated, or  even  softened,  by  time.  We  may 
re-read  them,  if  we  choose.  We  do  re-read 
them  often,  for  the  sake  of  lingering  repeatedly 
over  each  familiar  page,  but  we  can  never 
"  read  'em  new."  The  thrill  of  anticipation, 
the  joyous  pursuit,  the  sustained  interest,  the 
final  satisfaction,  —  all  these  sensations  of  de- 
light belong  to  our  earliest  acquaintance  with 
literature.  They  are  part  of  the  sunshine 
which  gilds  the  halcyon  days  of  youth. 

But  other  books  there  be,  —  and  it  is  well 
for  us  that  this  is  so,  —  whose  tranquil  mission 
is  to  soothe  our  grayer  years.  These  faithful 
comrades  are  the  "  bedside "  friends  whom 
Thackeray  loved,  to  whom  he  returned  night 
after  night  in  the  dozy  hours,  and  in  whose 
generous  companionship  he  found  respite  from 
the  fretful  cares  of  dnv.  These  are  the  vol- 


4  7  A"    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

umes  which  should  stand  on  a  sacred  shelf 
apart,  and  over  them  a  bust  of  Hermes,  god  of 
good  dreams  and  quiet  slumbers,  whom  the 
wise  ancients  honored  soberly,  as  having  the 
best  of  all  guerdons  in  his  keeping.  As  for 
the  company  on  that  shelf,  there  is  room  and 
to  spare  for  poets,  and  novelists,  and  letter- 
writers  ;  room  for  those  "  large,  still  books " 
so  dear  to  Tennyson's  soul,  and  for  essays,  and 
gossipy  memoirs,  and  gentle,  old-time  manuals 
of  devotion,  and  ghost  lore,  untainted  by  mod- 
ern research,  and  for  the  "  lying,  readable 
histories,"  which  grow  every  year  rarer  and 
more  beloved.  There  is  no  room  for  self-con- 
scious realism  picking  its  little  steps  along ;  nor 
for  socialistic  dramas,  hot  with  sin  ;  nor  ethical 
problems,  disguised  as  stories ;  nor  "  heroes  of 
complex,  psychological  interest,"  whatever  they 
may  mean ;  nor  inarticulate  verse ;  nor  angry, 
anarchical  reformers ;  nor  dismal  records  of 
vice  and  disease  parading  in  the  covers  of  a 
novel.  These  things  are  all  admirable  in  their 
way,  but  they  are  not  the  books  which  the 
calm  Hermes  takes  under  his  benign  protec- 
tion. Dull,  even,  they  may  be,  and  provoca- 
tive of  slumber ;  but  the  road  to  fair  dreams 


7AT   THE   DOZY  HOURS.  5 

lies  now,  as  in  the  days  of  the  heroes,  through 
the  shining  portals  of  ivory. 

Montaigne  and  James  Howell,  then,  were 
Thackeray's  bedside  favorites,  —  "  the  Peri- 
gourdiu  gentleman,  and  the  priggish  little 
clerk  of  King  Charles's  Council ; "  and  with 
these  two  "  dear  old  friends  "  he  whiled  away 
many  a  midnight  hour.  The  charm  of  both 
lay,  perhaps,  not  merely  in  their  diverting  gos- 
sip, nor  in  their  wide  acquaintance  with  men 
and  life,  but  in  their  serene  and  enviable  un- 
contentiousness.  Both  knew  how  to  follow  the 
sagacious  counsel  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  and 
save  themselves  a  world  of  trouble  by  having 
no  opinions  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects. 
"  I  seldom  consult  others,"  writes  Montaigne 
placidly,  "  and  am  seldom  attended  to ;  and  I 
know  no  concern,  either  public  or  private, 
which  has  been  mended  or  bettered  by  my  ad- 
vice." Ah !  what  a  man  was  there  !  What  a 
friend  to  have  and  to  hold  !  What  a  courtier, 
and  what  a  country  gentleman  !  It  is  pleasant 
to  think  that  this  embodiment  of  genial  toler- 
ance was  a  contemporary  of  John  Calvin's ; 
that  this  fine  scholar,  to  whom  a  few  books 
were  as  good  as  manv,  lived  unfretted  by  the 

O  J  i  J 


6  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

angry  turbulence  of  men  all  bent  on  pulling 
the  world  in  their  own  narrow  paths.  What 
wonder  that  Thackeray  forgave  him  many  sins 
for  the  sake  of  his  leisurely  charm  and  wise 
philosophy !  In  fact,  James  Howell,  the  "  prig- 
gish little  clerk,"  was  not  withheld  by  his  prig- 
gishness  from  relating  a  host  of  things  which 
are  hardly  fit  to  hear.  Those  were  not  reti- 
cent days,  and  men  wrote  freely  about  matters 
which  it  is  perhaps  as  healthy  and  as  agreeable 
to  let  alone.  But  Howell  was  nevertheless  a 
sincere  Churchman  as  well  as  a  sincere  Roy- 
alist. He  was  sound  throughout ;  and  if  he 
lacked  the  genius  and  the  philosophy  of  Mon- 
taigne, he  was  his  equal  in  worldly  knowledge 
and  in  tolerant  good  temper.  He  heard,  en- 
joyed, and  repeated  all  the  gossip  of  foreign 
courts,  all  the  "  severe  jests "  which  passed 
from  lip  to  lip.  He  loved  the  beauty  of  Italy, 
the  wit  of  France,  the  spirit  of  the  Netherlands, 
and  the  valor  of  Spain.  The  first  handsome 
woman  that  earth  ever  saw,  he  tells  us,  was 
made  of  Venice  glass,  as  beautiful  and  as  brit- 
tle as  are  her  descendants  to-day.  Moreover, 
"  Eve  spake  Italian,  when  Adam  was  seduced  ;  " 
for  in  that  beguiling  tongue,  in  those  soft,  per- 


IN   THE    DOZY   HOURS.  7 

suasive  accents,  she  felt  herself  to  be  most  ir- 
resistible. 

There  is  really,  as  Thackeray  well  knew,  a 
great  deal  of  pleasing  information  to  be  gath- 
ered from  the  "  Familiar  Letters,"  and  no 
pedagogic  pride,  no  spirit  of  carping  criticism, 
mars  their  delightful  flavor.  The  more  won- 
derful the  tale,  the  more  serene  the  composure 
with  which  it  is  narrated.  Howell  sees  in 
Holland  a  church  monument  "  where  an  earl 
and  a  lady  are  engraven,  with  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  children  about  them,  which  were 
all  delivered  at  one  birth."  Nay,  more,  he 
sees  "•  the  two  basins  in  which  they  were  chris- 
tened, and  the  bishop's  name  who  did  it,  not 
yet  two  hundred  years  ago ;  "  so  what  reason- 
able room  is  left  for  doubt?  He  tells  us  the 
well-aiithenticated  story  of  the  bird  with  a 
white  breast  which  visited  every  member  of 
the  Oxenham  family  immediately  before  death  ; 
and  also  the  u  choice  histoiy "  of  Captain 
Coucy,  who,  dying  in  Hungary,  sent  his  heart 
back  to  France,  as  a  gift  to  his  own  true  love. 
She,  however,  had  been  forced  by  her  father 
into  a  reluctant  and  unhappy  marriage  ;  and 
her  husband,  intercepting  the  token,  had  it 


8  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

cooked  into  a  "  well-relished  dish,"  which  he 
persuaded  his  wife  to  eat.  When  she  had 
obeyed,  he  told  her,  in  cruel  sport,  the  ghastly 
nature  of  the  food ;  but  she,  "  in  a  sudden  ex- 
altation of  joy,  and  with  a  far-fetch'd  sigh, 
cried,  '  This  is  a  precious  cordial  indeed,'  and 
so  lick'd  the  dish,  saying,  '  It  is  so  precious  that 
't  is  pity  to  put  ever  any  meat  upon  it.'  So 
she  went  to  her  chamber,  and  in  the  morning 
she  was  found  stone  dead."  Did  ever  rueful 
tale  have  such  triumphant  ending  ? 

Of  other  letter-writers,  Charles  Lamb  and 
Madame  de  Sevigne  are  perhaps  best  suited 
for  our  dozy  hours,  because  they  are  sure  to 
put  us  into  a  good  and  amiable  frame  of  mind, 
fit  for  fair  slumber  and  the  ivory  gates.  More- 
over, the  bulk  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  cor- 
respondence is  so  great  that,  unless  we  have 
been  very  faithful  and  constant  readers,  we  are 
likely  to  open  into  something  which  is  new  to 
us ;  and  as  for  Lamb,  those  who  love  him  at 
all  love  him  so  well  that  it  matters  little  which 
of  his  letters  they  read,  or  how  often  they  have 
read  them  before.  Only  it  is  best  to  select 
those  written  in  the  meridian  of  his  life.  The 
earlier  ones  are  too  painful,  the  later  ones  too 


/.v  THE  nn/.Y  Horn*.  9 

sad.  Let  us  take  him  at  his  happiest,  and  be 
happy  with  him  for  an  hour ;  for,  unless  we  go 
cheerfully  to  bed,  the  portals  of  horn  open  for 
us  with  sullen  murmur,  and  fretful  dreams, 
more  disquieting  than  even  the  troubled 
thoughts  of  day,  flit  batlike  round  our  melan- 
choly pillows. 

Miss  Austen  is  likewise  the  best  of  mid- 
night friends.  There  stand  her  novels,  few  in 
number  and  shabby  with  much  handling,  and 
the  god  Hermes  smiles  upon  them  kindly. 
We  have  known  them  well  for  years.  There 
is  no  fresh  nook  to  be  explored,  no  forgotten 
page  to  be  revisited.  But  we  will  take  one 
down,  and  re-read  for  the  fiftieth  time  the  his- 
tory of  the  theatricals  at  Mansfield  Park ;  and 
see  Mr.  Yates  ranting  by  himself  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  the  indefatigable  lovers  rehearsing 
amorously  on  the  stage,  and  poor  Mr.  Rush- 
worth  stumbling  through  his  two-and-forty 
speeches,  and  Fanny  Price,  in  the  chilly  little 
schoolroom,  listening  disconsolately  as  her 
cousin  Edmund  and  Mary  Crawford  go  through 
their  parts  with  more  spirit  and  animation  than 
the  occasion  seems  to  demand.  When  Sir 
Thomas  returns,  most  inopportunely,  from 


10  l.V   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

Antigua,  we  lay  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  of 
gentle  satisfaction,  knowing  that  we  shall  find 
all  these  people  in  the  morning  just  where 
they  belong,  and  not,  after  the  fashion  of 
some  modern  novels,  spirited  overnight  to  the 
antipodes,  with  a  breakneck  gap  of  months  or 
years  to  be  spanned  by  our  drooping  imagina- 
tions. Sir  Walter  Scott  tells  us,  with  tacit 
approbation,  of  an  old  lady  who  always  had 
Sir  Charles  Grandisoii  read  to  her  when  she 
felt  drowsy  ;  because,  should  she  fall  asleep 
and  waken  up  again,  she  would  lose  nothing 
of  the  story,  but  would  find  the  characters 
just  where  she  had  left  them,  "  conversing  in 
the  cedar-parlour."  It  would  be  possible  to 
take  a  refreshing  nap  —  did  our  sympathy  al- 
low us  such  an  alleviation  —  while  Clarissa 
Harlowe  is  writing,  on  some  tiny  scraps  of 
hidden  paper,  letters  which  fill  a  dozen  printed 
pages. 

Lovers  of  George  Borrow  are  wont  to  claim 
that  he  is  one  of  the  choicest  of  bedside  com- 
rades. Mr.  Birrell,  indeed,  stoutly  maintains 
that  slumber,  healthy  and  calm,  follows  the 
reading  of  his  books  just  as  it  follows  a  brisk 
walk  or  rattling  drive.  "  A  single  chapter  of 


I\    THE    DOZY   JI  Or  It  ft.  11 

Borrow  is  air  and  exercise."  Neither  need 
we  be  very  wide  awake  when  we  skim  over  his 
pages.  He  can  be  read  with  half-closed  eyes, 
and  we  feel  his  stir  and  animation  pleasantly 
from  without,  just  as  we  feel  the  motion  of  a 
carriage  when  we  are  heavy  with  sleep.  Pea- 
cock is  too  clever,  and  his  cleverness  has  too 
much  meaning  and  emphasis  for  this  lazy  de- 
light. Yet,  nevertheless,  "  The  Misfortunes 
of  Elphin  "  is  an  engaging  book  to  re-read  — 
if  one  knows  it  well  already  —  in  moments  of 
drowsy  satisfaction.  Then  will  the  convivial 
humor  of  "  Seithenyn  ap  Seithyn  "  awake  a 
sympathetic  echo  in  our  hearts,  shorn  for  the 
nonce  of  all  moral  responsibility.  Then  will 
the  roar  of  the  ocean  surging  through  the 
rotten  dikes  make  the  warm  chimney  corner 
doubly  grateful.  Then  is  the  reader  pleased 
to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  uncrowned  prince 
among  a  people  who,  having  "  no  pamphleteer- 
ing societies  to  demonstrate  that  reading  and 
writing  are  better  than  meat  and  drink,"  lived 
without  political  science,  and  lost  themselves 
contentedly  "  in  the  grossness  of  beef  and  ale." 
Peacock,  moreover,  in  spite  of  his  keenness  and 
virility,  is  easily  forgotten.  We  can  "  read 


12  /A'   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

him  new,"  and  double  our  enjoyment.  His 
characters  seldom  have  any  substantiality. 
We  remember  the  talk,  but  not  the  talkers, 
and  so  go  blithely  back  to  those  scenes  of  glad 
good-fellowship,  to  that  admirable  conservatism 
and  that  caustic  wit. 

Let  us,  then,  instead  of  striving  so  strenu- 
ously to  remember  all  we  read,  be  grateful 
that  we  can  occasionally  forget.  Mr.  Samuel 
Pepys,  who  knew  how  to  extract  a  fair  share 
of  pleasure  out  of  life,  frankly  admits  that  he 
delighted  in  seeing  an  old  play  over  again,  be- 
cause he  was  wise  enough  to  commit  none  of  it 
to  memory;  and  Mr.  Lang,  who  gives  his  vote 
to  "  Pepys's  Diary  "  as  the  very  prince  of  bed- 
side books,  the  one  "  which  may  send  a  man 
happily  to  sleep  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,"  de- 
clares it  owes  its  fitness  for  this  post  to  the 
ease  with  which  it  can  be  forgotten.  "Your 
deeds  and  misdeeds,"  he  writes,  "  your  dinners 
and  kisses,  glide  from  our  recollections,  and 
being  read  again,  surprise  and  amuse  us  afresh. 
Compared  with  you,  Montaigne  is  dry,  Bos- 
well  is  too  full  of  matter ;  but  one  can  take 
you  up  anywhere,  and  anywhere  lay  you  down, 
certain  of  being  diverted  by  the  picture  of  that 


l\    Till-:    DOZY   HOUR*.  13 

companion  with  whom  you  made  your  journey 
through  life.  .  .  .  You  are  perpetually  the 
most  amusing  of  gossips,  and,  of  all  who  have 
gossiped  about  themselves,  the  only  one  who 
tells  the  truth." 

And  the  poets  allied  with  Hermes  and 
happy  slumber,  —  who  are  they  ?  Mr.  Brown* 
ing  is  surely  not  one  of  the  kindly  group.  I 
would  as  lief  read  Mr.  George  Meredith's 
prose  as  Mr.  Browning's  verse  in  that  hour  of 
effortless  enjoyment.  But  Wordsworth  holds 
some  placid  moments  in  his  keeping,  and  we 
may  wander  on  simple  errands  by  his  side, 
taking  good  care  never  to  listen  to  philosophy, 
but  only  looking  at  all  he  shows  us,  until  our 
hearts  are  surfeited  with  pleasure,  and  the 
golden  daffodils  dance  drowsily  before  our 
closing  eyes.  Keats  belongs  to  dreamier 
moods,  when,  as  we  read,  the  music  of  his 
words,  the  keen  creative  magic  of  his  style, 
lure  us  away  from  earth.  We  leave  the  dark- 
ness of  night,  and  the  grayness  of  morning. 
We  cease  thinking,  and  are  content  to  feel. 
It  is  an  elfin  storm  we  hear  beating  against 
the  casement ;  it  is  the  foam  of  fairy  seas  that 
washes  on  the  shore. 


14  7Ar    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

"  Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain," 

wrapped  in  soft,  slumberous  satisfaction,  we 
are  but  vaguely  conscious  of  the  enchanted  air 
we  breathe,  or  of  our  own  unutterable  well- 
being.  There  is  no  English  poem,  save  only 
"  Christabel,"  which  can  lead  us  like  "  The 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes  "  straight  to  the  ivory  gates, 
and  waft  us  gently  from  waking  dreams  to  the 
mistier  visions  of  sleep.  But  there  are  many 
English  poets  —  Herrick,  and  Marvell,  and 
Gray,  and  Cowper,  and  Tennyson  —  who  have 
bedside  verses  for  us  all.  Herrick,  indeed, 
though  breathing  the  freshness  of  morning,  is 
a  delightful  companion  for  night.  He  calls 
us  so  distinctly  and  seductively  to  leave,  as  he 
did,  the  grievous  cares  of  life ;  to  close  our 
ears  to  the  penetrating  voice  of  duty ;  to  turn 
away  our  eyes  from  the  black  scaffold  of  King 
Charles  ;  and  to  watch,  with  him,  the  blossoms 
shaken  in  the  April  wind,  and  the  whitethorn 
of  May  time  blooming  on  the  hills,  and  the 
sheen  of  Julia's  robe,  as  she  goes  by  with 
laughter.  This  is  not  a  voice  to  sway  us  at 
broad  noon,  when  we  are  striving  painfully  to 
do  our  little  share  of  work ;  but  Hesperus 
should  bring  some  respite  even  to  the  dutiful, 


7.V    THE    1>0/.Y    IIOURH.  15 

and  in  our  dozy  hours  it  is  sweet  to  lay  aside 
all  labor,  and  keenness,  and  altruism.  Adonis, 
says  the  old  myth,  fled  from  the  amorous  arms 
of  Aphrodite  to  the  cold  Queen  of  Shadows 
who  could  promise  him  nothing  but  repose. 
Worn  with  passion,  wearied  of  delight,  he  lay 
at  the  feet  of  Persephone,  and  bartered  away 
youth,  strength,  and  love  for  the  waters  of 
oblivion  and  the  coveted  blessing  of  sleep. 


A  KITTEN. 
IP 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man," 

why  is  not  the  kitten  father  of  the  cat?  If 
in  the  little  boy  there  lurks  the  infant  likeness 
of  all  that  manhood  will  complete,  why  does 
not  the  kitten  betray  some  of  the  attributes 
common  to  the  adult  puss?  A  puppy  is  but 
a  dog,  plus  high  spirits,  and  minus  common 
sense.  We  never  hear  our  friends  say  they 
love  puppies,  but  cannot  bear  dogs.  A  kitten 
is  a  thing  apart ;  and  many  people  who  lack 
the  discriminating  enthusiasm  for  cats,  who 
regard  these  beautiful  beasts  with  aversion 
and  mistrust,  are  won  over  easily,  and  cajoled 
out  of  their  prejudices  by  the  deceitful  wiles 
of  kittenhood. 

"  The  little  actor  cons  another  part." 

and  is  the  most  irresistible  comedian  in  the 
world.  Its  wide-open  eyes  gleam  with  wonder 
and  mirth.  It  darts  madly  at  nothing  at  all, 
and  then,  as  though  suddenly  checked  in  the 
pursuit,  prances  sideways  on  its  hind  legs 


A    KITTEN.  17 

with  ridiculous  agility  and  zeal.  It  makes 
a  vast  pretense  of  climbing  the  rounds  of  a 
chair,  and  swings  by  the  curtain  like  an  acro- 
bat. It  scrambles  up  a  table  leg,  and  is  seized 
with  comic  horror  at  finding  itself  full  two 
feet  from  the  floor.  If  you  hasten  to  its  res- 
cue, it  clutches  you  nervously,  its  little  heart 
thumping  against  its  furry  sides,  while  its  soft 
paws  expand  and  contract  with  agitation  and 
relief ; 

' '  And  all  their  harmless  claws  disclose, 
Like  prickles  of  an  early  rose." 

Yet  the  instant  it  is  back  on  the  carpet  it 
feigns  to  be  suspicious  of  your  interference, 
peers  at  you  out  of  "  the  tail  o'  its  ee,"  and 
scampers  for  protection  under  the  sofa,  from 
which  asylum  it  presently  emerges  with  cau- 
tious trailing  steps,  as  though  encompassed  by 
fearful  dangers  and  alarms.  Its  baby  inno- 
cence is  yet  unseared.  The  evil  knowledge  of 
uncanny  things  which  is  the  dark  inheritance 
of  cathood  has  not  yet  shadowed  its  round 
infant  eyes.  Where  did  witches  find  the 
mysterious  beasts  that  sat  motionless  by  their 
fires,  and  watched  unblinkingly  the  waxen 
manikins  dwindling  in  the  flame?  They 


18  IX   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

never  reared  these  companions  of  their  soli- 
tude, for  no  witch  could  have  endured  to  see 
a  kitten  gamboling  on  her  hearthstone.  A 
witch's  kitten  !  That  one  preposterous  thought 
proves  how  wide,  how  unfathomed,  is  the  gap 
between  feline  infancy  and  age. 

So  it  happens  that  the  kitten  is  loved  and 
cherished  and  caressed  as  long  as  it  preserves 
the  beguiling  mirthfulness  of  youth.  Riche- 
lieu, we  know,  was  wont  to  keep  a  family  of 
kittens  in  his  cabinet,  that  their  grace  and 
gayety  might  divert  him  from  the  cares  of 
state,  and  from  black  moods  of  melancholy. 
Yet,  with  short-sighted  selfishness,  he  ban- 
ished these  little  friends  when  but  a  few 
months  old,  and  gave  their  places  to  younger 
pets.  The  first  faint  dawn  of  reason,  the 
first  indication  of  soberness  and  worldly  wis- 
dom, the  first  charming  and  coquettish  pre- 
tenses to  maturity,  were  followed  by  immedi- 
ate dismissal.  Richelieu  desired  to  be  amused. 
He  had  no  conception  of  the  finer  joy  which 
springs  from  mutual  companionship  and  es- 
teem. Even  humbler  and  more  sincere  ad- 
mirers, like  Joanna  Baillie,  in  whom  we  wish 
to  believe  Puss  found  a  friend  and  champion, 


.1    KITTEN.  19 

appear  to  take  it  for  granted  that  the  kitten 
should  be  the  spoiled  darling  of  the  house- 
hold, and  the  cat  a  social  outcast,  degraded 
into  usefulness,  and  expected  to  work  for  her 
living.  What  else  can  be  understood  from 
such  lines  as  these  ? 

"  Ah !  many  a  lightly  sportive  child, 
Who  hath,  like  thee,  our  wits  beguiled, 
To  dull  and  sober  manhood  grown, 
With  strange  recoil  our  hearts  disown. 
Even  so,  poor  Kit !  must  thou  endure, 
When  thou  becomest  a  cat  demure, 
Full  many  a  cuff  and  angry  word, 
Chid  roughly  from  the  tempting  board. 
And  yet,  for  that  thou  hast,  I  ween, 
So  oft  our  favored  playmate  been, 
Soft  be  the  change  which  thou  shalt  prove, 
When  time  hath  spoiled  thee  of  our  love  ; 
Still  be  thou  deemed,  by  housewife  fat, 
A  comely,  careful,  mousing  cat, 
Whose  dish  is,  for  the  public  good, 
Replenished  oft  with  savory  food." 

Here  is  a  plain  exposition  of  the  utilitarian 
theory  which  Shakespeare  is  supposed  to  have 
countenanced  because  Shylock  speaks  of  the 
"harmless,  necessary  cat."  Shylock,  for- 
sooth !  As  if  he,  of  all  men  in  Christendom 
or  Jewry,  knew  anything  about  cats  !  Small 
wonder  that  he  was  outwitted  by  Portia  and 


20  /AT   THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

Jessica,  when  an  adroit  little  animal  could  so 
easily  beguile  him.  But  Joanna  Baillie  should 
never  have  been  guilty  of  those  snug  common- 
places concerning  the 

"  comely,  careful,  mousing  cat," 

remembering  her  own  valiant  Tabby  who  won 
Scott's  respectful  admiration  by  worrying  and 
killing  a  dog.  It  ill  became  the  possessor  of 
an  Amazonian  cat,  distinguished  by  Sir  Wal- 
ter's regard,  to  speak  with  such  patronizing 
kindness  of  the  race. 

We  can  make  no  more  stupid  blunder  than 
to  look  upon  our  pets  from  the  standpoint  of 
utility.  Puss,  as  a  rule,  is  another  Nimrod, 
eager  for  the  chase,  and  unwearyingly  patient 
in  pursuit  of  her  prey.  But  she  hunts  for  her 
own  pleasure,  not  for  our  convenience ;  and 
when  a  life  of  luxury  has  relaxed  her  zeal,  she 
often  declines  to  hunt  at  all.  I  knew  inti- 
mately two  Maryland  cats,  well  born  and  of 
great  personal  attractions.  The  sleek,  black 
Tom  was  named  Onyx,  and  his  snow-white 
companion  Lilian.  Both  were  idle,  urbane, 
fastidious,  and  self-indulgent  as  Lucullus. 
Now,  into  the  house  honored,  but  not  served, 


A    K  ITT  EX.  21 

by  these  charming  creatures  came  a  rat,  which 
secured  permanent  lodgings  in  the  kitchen, 
and  speedily  evicted  the  maid  servants.  A 
reign  of  terror  followed,  and  after  a  few  days 
of  hopeless  anarchy  it  occurred  to  the  cook 
that  the  cats  might  be  brought  from  their  com- 
fortable cushions  upstairs  and  shut  in  at  night 
with  their  hereditary  foe.  This  was  done, 
and  the  next  morning,  on  opening  the  kitchen 
door,  a  tableau  rivaling  the  peaceful  scenes  of 
Eden  was  presented  to  the  view.  On  one  side 
of  the  hearth  lay  Onyx,  on  the  other,  Lilian ; 
and  ten  feet  away,  upright  upon  the  kitchen 
table,  sat  the  rat,  contemplating  them  both 
with  tranquil  humor  and  content.  It  was 
apparent  to  him,  as  well  as  to  the  rest  of  the 
household,  that  he  was  an  object  of  absolute, 
contemptuous  indifference  to  those  two  lordly 
cats. 

There  is  none  of  this  superb  unconcern  in 
the  joyous  eagerness  of  infancy.  A  kitten 
will  dart  in  pursuit  of  everything  that  is 
small  enough  to  be  chased  with  safety.  Not 
a  fly  011  the  window-pane,  not  a  moth  in  the 
air,  not  a  tiny  crawling  insect  on  the  carpet, 
escapes  its  unwelcome  attentions.  It  begins 


22  IX   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

to  "  take  notice  "  as  soon  as  its  eyes  are  open, 
and  its  vivacity,  outstripping  its  dawning  in- 
telligence, leads  it  into  infantile  perils  and 
wrong  doing.  I  own  that  when  Agrippina 
brought  her  first-born  son  —  aged  two  days  — 
and  established  him  in  my  bedroom  closet,  the 
plan  struck  me  at  the  start  as  inconvenient. 
I  had  prepared  another  nursery  for  the  little 
Claudius  Nero,  and  I  endeavored  for  a  while 
to  convince  his  mother  that  my  arrangements 
were  best.  But  Agrippina  was  inflexible. 
The  closet  suited  her  in  every  respect;  and, 
with  charming  and  irresistible  flattery,  she 
gave  me  to  understand,  in  the  mute  language 
I  knew  so  well,  that  she  wished  her  baby  boy 
to  be  under  my  immediate  protection.  "  I 
bring  him  to  you  because  I  trust  you,"  she 
said  as  plainly  as  looks  can  speak.  "  Down- 
stairs they  handle  him  all  the  time,  and  it  is 
not  good  for  kittens  to  be  handled.  Here  he 
is  safe  from  harm,  and  here  he  shall  remain." 
After  a  few  weak  remonstrances,  the  futility 
of  which  I  too  clearly  understood,  her  persist- 
ence carried  the  day.  I  removed  my  clothing 
from  the  closet,  spread  a  shawl  upon  the  floor, 
had  the  door  taken  from  its  hinges,  and  re- 


A   KITTEN.  23 

signed  myself,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  to 
the  daily  and  hourly  companionship  of  an  in- 
fant. 

I  was  amply  rewarded.  People  who  require 
the  household  cat  to  rear  her  offspring  in  some 
remote  attic,  or  dark  corner  of  the  cellar,  have 
no  idea  of  all  the  diversion  and  pleasure  that 
they  lose.  It  is  delightful  to  watch  the  little 
blind,  sprawling,  feeble,  helpless  things  develop 
swiftly  into  the  grace  and  agility  of  kitten- 
hood.  It  is  delightful  to  see  the  mingled 
pride  and  anxiety  of  the  mother,  whose  paren- 
tal love  increases  with  every  hour  of  care,  and 
who  exhibits  her  young  family  as  if  they  were 
infant  Gracchi,  the  hope  of  all  their  race. 
During  Nero's  extreme  youth,  there  were 
times,  I  admit,  when  Agrippina  wearied  both 
of  his  companionship  and  of  her  own  maternal 
duties.  Once  or  twice  she  abandoned  him  at 
night  for  the  greater  luxury  of  my  bed,  where 
she  slept  tranquilly  by  my  side,  unmindful  of 
the  little  wailing  cries  with  which  Nero  la- 
mented her  desertion.  Once  or  twice  the  heat 
of  early  summer  tempted  her  to  spend  the 
evening  on  the  porch  roof  which  lay  beneath 
my  windows,  and  I  have  passed  some  anxious 


24  7.V   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

hours  awaiting  her  return,  and  wondering 
what  would  happen  if  she  never  came  back, 
and  I  were  left  to  bring  up  the  baby  by  hand. 
But  as  the  days  sped  on,  and  Nero  grew 
rapidly  in  beauty  and  intelligence,  Agrip- 
pina's  affection  for  him  knew  no  bounds. 
She  could  hardly  bear  to  leave  him  even  for  a 
little  while,  and  always  came  hurrying  back  to 
him  with  a  loud  frightened  mew,  as  if  fearing 
he  might  have  been  stolen  in  her  absence.  At 
night  she  purred  over  him  for  hours,  or  made 
little  gurgling  noises  expressive  of  ineffable 
content.  She  resented  the  careless  curiosity 
of  strangers,  and  was  a  trifle  supercilious 
when  the  cook  stole  softly  in  to  give  vent  to 
her  fervent  admiration.  But  from  first  to  last 
she  shared  with  me  her  pride  and  pleasure  ; 
and  the  joy  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  as  she  raised 
them  to  mine,  was  frankly  confiding  and  sym- 
pathetic. When  the  infant  Claudius  rolled 
for  the  first  time  over  the  ledge  of  the  closet, 
and  lay  sprawling  on  the  bedroom  floor,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  say  which  of  us  was 
the  more  elated  at  his  prowess.  A  narrow 
pink  ribbon  of  honor  was  at  once  tied  around 
the  small  adventurer's  neck,  and  he  was  pro- 


25 

nounced  the  most  daring  and  agile  of  kittens. 
From  that  day  his  brief  career  was  a  series  of 
brilliant  triumphs.  He  was  a  kitten  of  parts. 
Like  one  of  Miss  Austen's  heroes,  he  had  air 
and  countenance.  Less  beautiful  than  his 
mother,  whom  he  closely  resembled,  he  easily 
eclipsed  her  in  vivacity  and  the  specious  arts 
of  fascination.  Never  were  mother  and  son 
more  unlike  in  character  and  disposition,  and 
the  inevitable  contrast  between  kittenhood  and 
cathood  was  enhanced  in  this  case  by  a  strong 
natural  dissimilarity  which  no  length  of  years 
could  have  utterly  effaced. 

Agrippina  had  always  been  a  cat  of  mani- 
fest reserves.  She  was  only  six  weeks  old 
when  she  came  to  me,  and  had  already  ac- 
quired that  gravity  of  demeanor,  that  air  of 
gentle  disdain,  that  dignified  and  somewhat 
supercilious  composure,  which  won  the  respect- 
ful admiration  of  those  whom  she  permitted 
to  enjoy  her  acquaintance.  Even  in  moments 
of  self-forgetfulness  and  mirth  her  recreations 
resembled  those  of  the  little  Spanish  Infanta, 
who,  not  being  permitted  to  play  with  her  in- 
feriors, and  having  no  equals,  diverted  herself 
as  best  she  could  with  sedate  and  solitary 


26  IN   THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

sport.  Always  chary  of  her  favors,  Agrip- 
pina  cared  little  for  the  admiration  of  her 
chosen  circle  ;  and,  with  a  single  exception, 
she  made  no  friends  beyond  it. 

Claudius  Nero,  on  the  contrary,  thirsted  for 
applause.  Affable,  debonair,  and  democratic 
to  the  core,  the  caresses  and  commendations  of 
a  chance  visitor  or  of  a  housemaid  were  as 
valuable  to  him  as  were  my  own.  I  never 
looked  at  him  "showing  off,"  as  children  say, 
—  jumping  from  chair  to  chair,  balancing 
himself  on  the  bedpost,  or  scrambling  raptu- 
rously up  the  forbidden  curtains,  —  without 
thinking  of  the  young  Emperor  who  contended 
in  the  amphitheatre  for  the  worthless  plaudits 
of  the  crowd.  He  was  impulsive  and  affec- 
tionate, —  so,  I  believe  was  the  Emperor  for 
a  time,  —  and  as  masterful  as  if  born  to  the 
purple.  His  mother  struggled  hard  to  main- 
tain her  rightful  authority,  but  it  was  in  vain, 
lie  woke  her  from  her  sweetest  naps ;  he 
darted  at  her  tail,  and  leaped  down  on  her 
from  sofas  and  tables  with  the  grace  of  a  di- 
minutive panther.  Every  time  she  attempted 
to  punish  him  for  these  misdemeanors  he  cried 
piteously  for  help,  and  was  promptly  and  un« 


A    KITTEX.  27 

wisely  rescued  by  some  kind-hearted  member 
of  the  family.  After  a  while  Agrippina  took 
to  sitting  on  her  tail,  in  order  to  keep  it  out 
of  his  reach,  and  I  have  seen  her  many  times 
carefully  tucking-  it  out  of  sight.  She  had 
never  been  a  cat  of  active  habits  or  of  showy 
accomplishments,  and  the  daring  agility  of 
the  little  Nero  amazed  and  bewildered  her. 
"  A  Spaniard,"  observes  that  pleasant  gossip, 
James  Howell,  "walks  as  if  he  marched,  and 
seldom  looks  upon  the  ground,  as  if  he  con- 
temned it.  I  was  told  of  a  Spaniard  who, 
having  got  a  fall  by  a  stumble,  and  broke  his 
nose,  rose  up,  and  in  a  disdainful  manner  said, 
'  This  conies  of  walking  on  the  earth.' ' 

Now  Nero  seldom  walked  on  the  earth.  At 
least,  he  never,  if  he  could  help  it,  walked  on 
the  floor  ;  but  traversed  a  room  in  a  series  of 
flying  leaps  from  chair  to  table,  from  table  to 
lounge,  from  lounge  to  desk,  with  an  occa- 
sional dash  at  the  mantelpiece,  just  to  show 
what  he  could  do.  It  was  curious  to  watch 
Agrippina  during  the  performance  of  these 
acrobatic  feats.  Pride,  pleasure,  the  anxiety 
of  a  mother,  and  the  faint  resentment  of  con- 
scious inferiority  struggled  for  mastership  in 


28  IN    THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

her  little  breast.  Sometimes,  when  Nero's 
radiant  self-satisfaction  grew  almost  insuffer- 
able, I  have  seen  her  eyelids  narrow  sullenly, 
and  have  wondered  whether  the  Roman  Em- 
press ever  looked  in  that  way  at  her  brilliant 
and  beautiful  son,  when  maternal  love  was 
withering  slowly  under  the  shadow  of  coming 
evil.  Sometimes,  when  Nero  had  been  pran- 
cing and  paddling  about  with  absurd  and  irre- 
sistible glee,  attracting  and  compelling  the 
attention  of  everybody  in  the  room,  Agrippina 
would  jump  Tip  on  my  lap,  and  look  in  my 
face  with  an  expression  I  thought  I  under- 
stood. She  had  never  before  valued  my  affec- 
tion in  all  her  little  petted,  pampered  life. 
She  had  been  sufficient  for  herself,  and  had 
merely  tolerated  me  as  a  devoted  and  \ise- 
ful  companion.  But  now  that  another  had 
usurped  so  many  of  her  privileges,  I  fancied 
there  were  moments  when  it  pleased  her  to 
know  that  one  subject,  at  least,  was  not  to  be 
beguiled  from  allegiance  ;  that  to  one  friend, 
at  least,  she  always  was  and  always  would  be 
the  dearest  cat  in  the  world. 

I  am  glad  to  remember  that  love  triumphed 
over  jealousy,  and  that  Agrippina's  devotion 


.1    KITTEN.  29 

to  Nero  increased  with  every  day  of  his  short 
life.  The  altruism  of  a  cat  seldom  reaches 
beyond  her  kittens ;  but  she  is  capable  of  he- 
roic unselfishness  where  they  are  concerned. 
I  knew  of  a  London  beast,  a  homeless,  forlorn 
vagrant,  who  constituted  herself  an  out-door 
pensioner  at  the  house  of  a  friendly  man  of 
letters.  This  cat  had  a  kitten,  whose  youth- 
ful vivacity  won  the  hearts  of  a  neighboring 
family.  They  adopted  it  willingly,  but  re- 
fused to  harbor  the  mother,  who  still  came  for 
her  daily  dole  to  her  only  benefactor.  When- 
ever a  bit  of  fish  or  some  other  especial  dainty 
was  given  her,  this  poor  mendicant  scaled  the 
wall,  and  watched  her  chance  to  share  it  with 
her  kitten,  her  little  wealthy,  greedy  son,  who 
gobbled  it  up  as  remorselessly  as  if  he  were 
not  living  on  the  fat  of  the  land. 

Agrippina  would  have  been  swift  to  follow 
such  an  example  of  devotion.  At  dinner  time 
she  always  yielded  the  precedence  to  Nero, 
and  it  became  one  of  our  daily  tasks  to  com- 
pel the  little  lad  to  respect  his  mother's  privi- 
leges. He  scorned  his  saucer  of  milk,  and 
from  tenderest  infancy  aspired  to  adult  food, 
making  predatory  incursions  upon  Agrippina's 


30  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

plate,  and  obliging  us  finally  to  feed  them  in 
separate  apartments.  I  have  seen  him,  when 
a  very  young  kitten,  rear  himself  upon  his 
baby  legs,  and  with  his  soft  and  wicked  little 
paw  strike  his  mother  in  the  face  until  she 
dropped  the  piece  of  meat  she  had  been  eat- 
ing, when  he  tranquilly  devoured  it.  It  was 
to  prevent  the  recurrence  of  such  scandalous 
scenes  that  two  dining-rooms  became  a  neces- 
sity in  the  family.  Yet  he  was  so  loving  and 
so  lovable,  poor  little  Claudius  Nero  !  Why 
do  I  dwell  on  his  faults,  remembering,  as  I 
do,  his  winning  sweetness  and  affability  ? 
Day  after  day,  in  the  narrow  city  garden,  the 
two  cats  played  together,  happy  in  each  other's 
society,  and  never  a  yard  apart.  Night  after 
night  they  retired  at  the  same  time,  and  slept 
upon  the  same  cushion,  curled  up  inextricably 
into  one  soft,  furry  ball.  Many  times  I  have 
knelt  by  their  chair  to  bid  them  both  good- 
night ;  and  always,  when  I  did  so,  Agrippina 
would  lift  her  charming  head,  purr  drowsily 
for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  nestle  closer  still 
to  her  first-born,  with  sighs  of  supreme  sat- 
isfaction. The  zenith  of  her  life  had  been 
reached.  Her  cup  of  contentment  was  full. 


A    KITTEN.  31 

It  is  a  rude  world,  even  for  little  cats,  and 
evil  chances  lie  in  wait  for  the  petted  crea- 
tures we  strive  to  shield  from  harm.  Remem- 
bering the  pangs  of  separation,  the  possibili- 
ties of  unkindness  or  neglect,  the  troubles 
that  hide  in  ambush  on  every  unturned  page, 
I  am  sometimes  glad  that  the  same  cruel  and 
selfish  blow  struck  both  mother  and  son,  and 
that  they  lie  together,  safe  from  hurt  or  haz- 
ard, sleeping  tranquilly  and  always,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  friendly  pines. 


AT  THE   NOVELIST'S   TABLE. 

"COMPARE,"  said  a  friend  to  me  recently, 
"  the  relative  proportion  of  kissing  and  veni- 
son pasties  in  Scott's  novels  and  Miss  Rhoda 
Broughton's, "  —  and  I  did.  It  was  a  lame 
comparison,  owing  to  my  limited  acquaintance 
with  part  of  the  given  text ;  but  I  pursued  my 
investigations  cheerfully  along  the  line  of 
Waverley,  and  was  delighted  and  edified  by 
the  result.  Years  ago,  a  sulky  critic  in 
Blackwood,  commenting  acrimoniously  on  Miss 
Susan  Warner's  very  popular  tales,  asserted 
that  there  was  more  kissing  in  one  of  these 
narratives  than  in  all  the  stories  Sir  Walter 
ever  wrote.  Probably  the  critic  was  right. 
As  far  as  I  can  recollect  Miss  Warner's  hero- 
ines, —  and  I  knew  several  of  them  intimately 
when  a  child,  - —  they  were  always  either  kiss- 
ing or  crying,  and  occasionally  they  did  both 
together.  Ellen  Montgomery,  dissolved  in 
tears  because  John  has  forgotten  to  kiss  her 
good-night,  was  as  cheerless  a  companion  as  I 


AT    Till-:    NOVELIST'S    TABLE.  .)-•> 

ever  found   in  the   wide  world  of  story-book 
life. 

But  Scott's  young  people  never  seem  to 
hunger  for  embraces.  They  allow  the  most 
splendid  opportunities  to  slip  by  without  a 
single  caress.  When  Quentin  Durward  res- 
cues the  Countess  Isabella  at  the  siege  of  Liege, 
he  does  not  pause  to  passionately  kiss  her  cold 
lips ;  he  gathers  her  up  with  all  possible  speed, 
and  makes  practical  plans  for  getting  her  out 
of  the  way.  When  Edith  Bellenden  visits  her 
imprisoned  lover,  no  thought  of  kissing  enters 
either  mind.  Henry  Morton  is  indeed  so  over- 
come by  "  deep  and  tumultuous  feeling  "  that 
he  presses  his  visitor's  "  unresisting  hands  ;  " 
but  even  this  indulgence  is  of  brief  duration. 
Miss  Bellenden  quickly  recovers  her  hands, 
and  begins  to  discuss  the  situation  with  a 
great  deal  of  sense  and  good  feeling.  Henry 
Bertram  does  not  appear  to  have  stolen  a  sin- 
gle kiss  from  that  romantic  and  charming 
young  woman,  Julia  Mannering,  in  the  whole 
course  of  their  clandestine  courtship ;  and  the 
propriety  of  Lord  Glenvarloch's  behavior,  when 
shut  up  in  a  cell  with  pretty  Margaret  Ram- 
say, must  be  remembered  by  all.  "  Naething 


34  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

for  you  to  sniggle  and  laugh  at,  Steenie,"  ob- 
serves King  James  reprovingly  to  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  when  that  not  immaculate  noble- 
man betrays  some  faint  amusement  at  the 
young  Scotchman's  modesty.  "  He  might  be 
a  Father  of  the  Church,  in  comparison  of  you, 
man." 

In  the  matter  of  venison  pasties,  however, 
we  have  a  different  tale  to  tell.  There  are 
probably  ten  of  these  toothsome  dishes  to  every 
kiss,  twenty  of  them  to  every  burst  of  tears. 
Compare  Quentin  Durward  as  a  fighter  to 
Quentin  Durward  as  a  lover,  and  then,  by  way 
of  understanding  how  he  preserved  his  muscle, 
turn  back  to  that  delightful  fourth  chapter, 
where  the  French  King  plays  the  part  of  host 
at  the  famous  inn  breakfast.  So  admirably  is 
the  scene  described  in  two  short  pages,  so  fine 
is  the  power  of  Scott's  genial  human  sympathy, 
that  I  have  never  been  able,  since  reading  it, 
to  cherish  for  Louis  XI.  the  aversion  which  is 
his  rightful  due.  In  vain  I  recall  the  familiar 
tales  of  his  cruelty  and  baseness.  In  vain  I 
remind  myself  of  his  treacherous  plans  for  poor 
Dnrward's  destruction.  'T  is  useless !  I  can- 
not dissociate  him  from  that  noble  meal,  nor 


AT    THE    NOVELIST'S    TABLE.  35 

from  the  generous  enthusiasm  with  which  he 
provides  for,  and  encourages,  the  splendid 
appetite  of  youth.  The  inn  breakfast  has  but 
one  peer,  even  in  Scott's  mirthful  pages,  and 
to  find  it  we  must  follow  the  fortunes  of  an- 
other monarch  who  masquerades  to  better  pur- 
pose than  does  Maitre  Pierre,  whose  asylum  is 
the  hermitage  of  St.  Dunstan,  and  whose  host 
is  the  jolly  Clerk  of  Copmanhurst.  The  grad- 
ual progress  and  slow  development  of  the  holy 
hermit's  supper,  which  begins  tentatively  with 
parched  pease  and  a  can  of  water  from  St. 
Dunstan's  well,  and  ends  with  a  mighty  pasty 
of  stolen  venison  and  a  huge  flagon  of  wine, 
fill  the  reader's  heart  —  if  he  has  a  heart  — 
with  sound  and  sympathetic  enjoyment.  It  is 
one  of  the  gastronomic  delights  of  literature. 
Every  step  of  the  way  is  taken  with  renewed 
pleasure,  for  the  humors  of  the  situation  are 
as  unflagging  as  the  appetites  and  the  thirst  of 
the  revelers.  Even  the  quarrel  which  threat- 
ens to  disturb  the  harmony  of  the  feast  only 
adds  to  its  flavor.  Guest  and  host,  disguised 
king  and  pretended  recluse,  are  as  ready  to 
fight  as  to  eat ;  and,  with  two  such  champions, 
who  shall  say  where  the  palm  of  victory  hides  ? 


36  JN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

Any  weapon  will  suit  the  monk,  "  from  the 
scissors  of  Delilah,  and  the  tenpenny  nail  of 
Jael,  to  the  scimitar  of  Goliath,"  though  the 
good  broadsword  pleases  him  best.  Any 
weapon  will  suit  King  Richard,  and  he  is  a 
match  for  Friar  Tuck  in  all.  Born  brothers 
are  they,  though  the  throne  of  England  waits 
for  one,  and  the  oaks  of  Sherwood  Forest  for 
the  other. 

"  But  there  is  neither  east,  nor  west,  border,  nor  breed,  nor 

birth, 

When  two  strong  men  stand  face   to  face,  though  they 
come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

In  his  descriptions  of  eating  and  drinking, 
Scott  stands  midway  between  the  snug,  coarse, 
hearty  enjoyment  of  Dickens,  and  the  frank 
epicureanism  of  Thackeray,  and  he  easily  sur- 
passes them  both.  With  Dickens,  the  pleasure 
of  the  meal  springs  from  the  honest  appetites 
which  meet  it  —  appetites  sharpened  often  by 
the  pinching  pains  of  hunger.  With  Thack- 
eray, it  is  the  excellence  of  the  entertainment 
itself  which  merits  approbation.  With  Scott, 
it  is  the  spirit  of  genial  good-fellowship  which 
turns  a  venison  pasty  into  a  bond  of  brother- 
hood, and  strengthens,  with  a  runlet  of  canary, 


AT    THE   NOVELIST'S    TABLE.  37 

the  human  tie  which  binds  us  man  to  man. 
Dickens  tries  to  do  this,  but  does  not  often 
succeed,  just  because  he  tries.  A  conscious 
purpose  is  an  irresistible  temptation  to  oratory, 
and  we  do  not  want  to  be  preached  to  over  a 
roast  goose,  nor  lectured  at  through  the  medium 
of  pork  and  greens.  Seott  never  turns  a  table 
into  a  pulpit ;  it  is  his  own  far-reaching  sym- 
pathy which  touches  the  secret  springs  that 
move  us  to  kind  thoughts.  Quentin  Durward's 
breakfast  at  the  inn  is  worthy  of  Thackeray. 
Quentin  Durward's  appetite  is  worthy  of  Dick- 
ens. But  Quentin  Durward's  host  —  the  cruel 
and  perfidious  Louis  —  ah !  no  one  but  Scott 
would  have  dared  to  paint  him  with  such  fine, 
unhostile  art,  and  no  one  but  Scott  would  have 
succeeded. 

In  point  of  detail,  however,  Dickens  defies 
competition.  Before  his  vast  and  accurate 
knowledge  the  puny  efforts  of  modern  realism 
shrink  into  triviality  and  nothingness.  What 
is  the  occasional  dinner  at  a  third-class  New 
York  restaurant,  the  roast  chicken  and  mashed 
potatoes  and  cranberry  tart,  eaten  with  such 
ostentatious  veracity,  when  compared  to  that 
unerring  observation  which  penetrated  into 


38  7^   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

every  English  larder,  which  lifted  the  lid  of 
every  pipkin,  and  divined  the  contents  of  every 
mysterious  and  forbidding  meat  pie  !  Dickens 
knew  when  the  Micawbers  supped  on  lamb's 
fry,  and  when  on  breaded  chops ;  he  knew  the 
contents  of  Mrs.  Bardell's  little  saucepan  sim- 
mering by  the  fire ;  he  knew  just  how  many 
pigeons  lurked  under  the  crust  of  John  Brow- 
die's  pasty;  he  knew  every  ingredient  —  and 
there  are  nearly  a  dozen  of  them  —  in  the  Jolly 
Sandboys'  stew.  There  was  not  a  muffin,  nor 
a  bit  of  toasted  cheese,  nor  a  slab  of  pease-pud- 
ding from  the  cook-shop,  nor  a  rasher  of  ba- 
con, nor  a  slice  of  cucumber,  nor  a  dish  of  pet- 
titoes eaten  without  his  knowledge  and  consent. 
And,  as  it  cost  him  no  apparent  effort  to  re- 
member and  tell  all  these  things,  it  costs  us  no 
labor  to  read  them.  We  are  naturally  pleased 
to  hear  that  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  has  or- 
dered a  hot  beefsteak-pudding  and  potatoes  at 
nine,  and  we  hardly  need  to  be  reminded  — 
even  by  the  author  —  of  the  excellence  of  Mr. 
Swiveller's  purl.  The  advantage  of  uncon- 
scious realism  over  the  premeditated  article  is 
a  lack  of  stress  on  the  author's  part,  and  a 
corresponding  lack  of  fatigue  on  ours. 


AT    THE   NOVELIST'S    TABLE.  39 

Thackeray  reaches  the  climax  of  really  good 
cooking,  and,  with  the  art  of  a  great  novelist, 
he  restrains  his  gastronomic  details,  and  keeps 
them  within  proper  bounds.  Beyond  his 
limits  it  is  not  wise  to  stray,  lest  we  arrive 
at  the  land  of  gilded  puppets,  where  Disraeli's 
dukes  and  duchesses  feast  forever  on  ortolans, 
and  pompeton.es  of  larks,  and  lobster  sand- 
wiches ;  where  young  spendthrifts  breakfast 
at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  on  soup  and 
claret ;  and  where  the  enamored  Lothair  feeds 
Miss  Arundel  "  with  cates  as  delicate  as  her 
lips,  and  dainty  beverages  which  would  not 
outrage  their  purity."  The  "  pies  and  prepara- 
tions of  many  lands  "  which  adorn  the  table 
of  that  distinguished  dinner-giver,  Mr.  Braiice- 
peth,  fill  us  with  vague  but  lamentable  doubts. 
"  Royalty,"  wre  are  assured,  "  had  consecrated 
his  banquets  "  and  tasted  of  those  pies  ;  but  it 
is  the  province  of  royalty,  as  Mr.  lluskin  re- 
minds us,  to  dare  brave  deeds  which  common- 
ers may  be  excused  from  attempting.  Hugo 
Bohun,  at  the  Duke's  banquet,  fired  with  the 
splendid  courage  of  his  crusading  ancestry, 
dislodges  the  ortolans  from  their  stronghold 
of  aspic  jelly,  and  gives  to  the  entertainment 


40  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

that  air  of  glittering  unreality  which  was  Dis- 
raeli's finest  prerogative,  and  which  has  been 
copied  with  facile  fidelity  by  Mr.  Oscar 
Wilde.  "  I  see  it  is  time  for  supper,"  ob- 
serves the  aesthetic  Gilbert  of  the  dialogues. 
"  After  we  have  discussed  some  Chambertin 
and  a  few  ortolans,  we  will  pass  on  to  the 
question  of  the  critic,  considered  in  the  light 
of  the  interpreter."  And  when  we  read  these 
lines,  our  lingering  doubts  as  to  whether  Gil- 
bert be  a  man  or  a  mere  mouthpiece  for  beau- 
tiful words,  "  a  reed  cut  short  and  notched  by 
the  great  god  Pan  for  the  production  of  flute- 
melodies  at  intervals,"  fade  into  dejected  cer- 
tainty. That  touch  about  the  ortolans  is  so 
like  Disraeli,  that  all  Gilbert's  surpassing 
modern  cleverness  can  no  longer  convince  us 
of  his  vitality.  He  needs  but  a  golden  plate 
to  fit  him  for  the  ducal  diiiiiig-table,  where 
royalty,  and  rose-colored  tapestry,  and  "  splen- 
did nonchalance  "  complete  the  dazzling  illu- 
sion. After  which,  we  may  sober  ourselves 
with  a  parting  glance  at  the  breakfast-room  of 
Tillietudlem,  and  at  the  fare  which  Lady 
Margaret  Bellendeii  has  prepared  for  Graham 
of  Claverhouse  and  his  troopers.  "  Xo  tea, 


AT   THE   NOVELIST'S    TABLE.  41 

no  coffee,  no  variety  of  rolls,  but  solid  and 
substantial  viands  —  the  priestly  ham,  the 
knightly  surloin,  the  noble  baron  of  beef,  the 
princely  venison  pasty."  Here  in  truth  is  a 
vigorous  and  an  honorable  company,  and  here 
is  a  banquet  for  men. 


IN  BEHALF  OF  PARENTS. 

IT  is  a  thankless  task  to  be  a  parent  in 
these  exacting  days,  and  I  wonder  now  and 
then  at  the  temerity  which  prompts  man  or 
woman  to  assume  such  hazardous  duties. 
Time  was,  indeed,  when  parents  lifted  their 
heads  loftily  in  the  world ;  when  they  were 
held  to  be,  in  the  main,  useful  and  responsible 
persons ;  when  their  authority,  if  unheeded, 
was  at  least  unquestioned  ;  and  when  one  of 
the  ten  commandments  was  considered  to  indi- 
cate  that  especial  reverence  was  their  due. 
These  simple  and  primitive  convictions  lin- 
gered on  so  long  that  some  of  us  can  perhaps 
remember  when  they  were  a  part  of  our  youth- 
ful creed,  and  when,  in  life  and  in  literature, 
the  lesson  commonly  taught  was  that  the 
province  of  the  parent  is  to  direct  and  control, 
the  privilege  of  the  child  is  to  obey,  and  to  be 
exempt  from  the  painful  sense  of  responsi- 
bility which  overtakes  him  in  later  years.  In 
very  old-fashioned  books,  this  point  of  view  is 


/.V    BEHALF    OF   PARENTS.  4o 

strained  to  embrace  some  rather  difficult  con- 
clusions. The  attitude  of  Evelina  to  her 
worthless  father,  of  Clarissa  Harlovve  to  her 
tyrannical  parents,  seemed  right  and  reason- 
able to  the  generations  which  first  read  these 
novels,  while  we  of  the  present  day  are  amazed 
at  such  unnatural  submissiveness  and  loyalty. 
"  It  is  hard,"  says  Clarissa's  mother,  in  an- 
swer to  her  daughter's  despairing  appeals,  "  if 
a  father  and  mother,  and  uncles  and  aunts,  all 
conjoined,  cannot  be  allowed  to  direct  your 
choice  ;  "  an  argument  to  which  the  unhappy 
victim  replies  only  with  her  tears.  How  one 
longs  to  offer  Mrs.  Harlowe  some  of  these  lit- 
tle manuals  of  advice  which  prove  to  us  now 
so  conclusively  that  even  a  young  child  is 
deeply  wronged  by  subjection.  "  Looked  at 
from  the  highest  standpoint,''  says  one  of  our 
modern  mentors,  "  we  have  no  more  right  to 
interfere  with  individual  choice  in  our  children 
than  we  have  to  interfere  with  the  choice  of- 
friends  ; ''  a  statement  which,  applied  as  it 
is,  not  to  marriageable  young  women,  but  to 
small  boys  and  girls,  defines  matters  explicitly, 
and  does  away  at  once  and  forever  with  all 
superannuated  theories  of  obedience. 


44  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

A  short  perusal  of  these  text-books  of  train- 
ing would  lead  the  uninitiated  to  conclude 
that  the  children  of  to-day  are  a  down-trodden 
race,  deprived  of  their  natural  rights  by  the 
ruthless  despotism  of  parents.  It  is  also  indi- 
cated with  painful  and  humiliating  distinct- 
ness that  adidts  have  no  rights  —  at  least  none 
that  children  are  bound  to  respect  —  and  that 
we  have  hardened  ourselves  into  selfishness  by 
looking  at  things  from  a  grown-up,  and  conse- 
quently erroneous,  point  of  view.  For  exam- 
ple, to  many  of  us  it  is  an  annoyance  when  a 
child  wantonly  destroys  our  property.  This 
is  ungenerous.  "  With  anointed  eyes  we 
might  often  see  in  such  a  tendency  a  great 
power  of  analysis,  that  needs  only  to  be  un- 
derstood to  secure  grand  results  ;  "  —  which 
reflection,  should  make  us  prompt  to  welcome 
the  somewhat  disastrous  results  already  se- 
cured. I  once  knew  a  little  boy  who,  having 
been  taken  on  a  visit  to  some  relatives,  suc- 
ceeded within  half  an  hour  in  purloining  the 
pendulums  of  three  old  family  clocks,  a  pas- 
sion for  analysis  which  ought  to  have  made 
him  one  of  the  first  mechanics  of  his  age,  had 
not  his  genius,  like  that  of  the  political  agita- 


IN  BEHALF    OF  PARENTS.  45 

tor,  stopped  short  at  the  portals  of  reconstruc- 
tion. 

It  is  hard  to  attune  our  minds  to  a  correct 
appreciation  of  such  incidents,  when  the  clocks 
belong  to  us,  and  the  child  does  n't.  It  is 
hard  to  be  told  that  our  pendulums  are  a 
necessary  element,  which  we  do  wrong  to  be- 
grudge, in  the  training  of  a  boy's  observation. 
All  modern  writers  upon  children  unite  in 
denouncing  the  word  "don't,"  as  implying 
upon  every  occasion  a  censure  which  is  often 
unmerited.  But  this  protest  reminds  me  of 
the  little  girl  who,  being  told  by  her  father 
she  must  not  say  "  I  won't,"  innocently  in- 
quired :  "  But,  papa,  what  am  I  to  say  when 
I  mean  '  I  won't '  ?  "  In  the  same  spirit  of 
uncertainty  I  would  like  to  know  what  I  am 
to  say  when  I  mean  "  don't."  Auretta  Roys 
Aldrich,  who  has  written  a  book  on  "  Children 
—  Their  Models  and  Critics,"  in  which  she  is 
rather  severe  upon  adults,  tells  us  a  harrowing 
tale  of  a  mother  and  a  five-year-old  boy  who 
sat  near  her  one  day  on  a  railway  train.  The 
child  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window, 
whereupon  the  mother  said  tersely  :  "  Johnnie, 
stop  putting  your  head  out  of  the  window !  " 


46  7AT    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

That  was  all.  No  word  of  explanation  or 
entreaty  softened  this  ruthless  command. 
Whether  Johnnie  obeyed  or  not  is  unrevealed, 
being  a  matter  of  no  importance  ;  but,  "  as 
they  left  the  car,"  comments  the  author,  "  they 
left  also  an  aching  in  my  heart.  I  longed  to 
clasp  the  mother  in  my  arms,  for  she,  too,  had 
been  the  victim  of  misunderstanding ;  and 
show  her,  before  it  was  too  late,  how  she  was 
missing  the  pure  gold  of  life  for  herself  and 
her  little  boy."  Happily,  before  long,  another 
mother  entered,  and  her  child  also  put  his 
head  as  far  as  he  could  out  of  that  trouble- 
some window,  which  nobody  seemed  to  have 
the  sense  to  shut.  Observing  this,  his  wise 
parent  sat  down  by  his  side,  "  made  some 
pleasant  remark  about  the  outlook,"  and  then 
gradually  and  persuasively  revealed  to  him 
his  danger,  discussing  the  matter  with  "  much 
candor  and  interest,"  until  he  was  finally  won 
over  to  her  point  of  view,  and  consented  of 
his  own  free  will,  and  as  a  rational  human  be- 
ing, to  draw  in  his  little  head. 

I  think  this  double  experience  worth  repeat- 
ing, because  it  contrasts  so  pleasantly  with 
the  venerable  anecdote  which  found  its  way 


/Ar   BE II Alt'    OF   PARENTS.  47 

into  all  the  reading  books  when  I  was  a  small 
child,  and  illustrated  the  then  popular  theory 
of  education.  It  was  the  story  of  a  mother 
who  sees  her  boy  running  rapidly  down  a 
steep  hill,  and  knows  that,  almost  at  his  feet, 
lies  an  abandoned  quarry,  half  hidden  by  un- 
derbrush and  weeds.  Sure  of  his  obedience, 
she  calls  sharply,  "  Stop,  Willie ! "  and  the 
child,  with  a  violent  effort,  stays  his  steps  at 
the  very  mouth  of  the  pit.  Had  it  been  neces- 
sary to  convince  him  first  that  her  appre- 
hensions were  well  grounded,  he  would  have 
broken  his  neck  meanwhile,  and  our  school- 
books  would  have  had  one  tale  less  to  tell. 

Still  more  astounding  to  the  uninitiated  is 
another  little  narrative,  told  with  enviable 
gravity  by  Mrs.  Aldrich,  and  designed  to 
show  how  easily  and  deeply  we  wound  a 
child's  inborn  sense  of  justice.  u  A  beautiful 
boy  of  four  whose  parents  were  unusually  wise 
in  dealing  with  him "  —  it  is  seldom  that  a 
parent  wins  this  degree  of  approbation  —  pos- 
sessed a  wheelbarrow  of  his  own,  in  which  he 
carried  the  letters  daily  to  and  from  the  post- 
office.  One  morning  he  was  tardy  in  return- 
ing, "  for  there  was  the  world  to  be  explored  " 


48  7.V    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

on  the  way ;  and  his  mother,  growing  anxious, 
or  perhaps  desiring  her  mail,  followed  him  to 
know  what  was  the  matter.  She  met  him  at 
the  post-office  door,  and  seeing  in  the  barrow 
an  envelope  directed  to  herself,  she  rashly 
picked  it  up  and  opened  it.  Edwin  promptly 
"raised  a  vehement  cry  of  protest."  That 
letter,  like  all  the  rest,  had  been  given  to  him 
to  carry,  and  no  one  else  was  privileged  to 
touch  it.  Swiftly  and  repentantly  his  mother 
returned  the  unfortunate  missive,  but  in  vain. 
"  The  wound  was  too  deep,  and  he  continued 
to  cry  '  Mamma,  you  ought  not  to  have  done 
it ! '  over  and  over  again  between  his  sobs." 
In  fact  he  "refused  to  be  comforted," -  — com- 
forted !  —  "  and  so  was  taken  home  as  best  he 
could  be,  and  laid  tenderly  and  lovingly  in 
bed.  After  sleeping  away  the  sharpness  of 
sorrow  and  disappointment,  and  consequent 
exhaustion,  the  matter  could  be  talked  over ; 
but  while  he  was  so  tired,  and  keenly  smart- 
ing under  the  sense  of  injustice  done  him, 
every  word  added  fuel  to  the  flame.  .  .  .  If  is 
possessions  had  been  taken  away  from  him 
by  sheer  force,  before  which  he  was  helpless. 
That  his  indignation  was  not  appeased  by  put- 


IN    BEHALF    OF   PARENTS.  49 

ting  the  letter  back  into  his  keeping,  showed 
that  he  was  contending  for  a  principle,  and 
not  for  possession  or  any  selfish  interest." 

Readers  of  George  Eliot  may  be  pleasantly 
reminded  of  that  scene  in  the  "  Mill  on  the 
Floss  "  where  Tom  Tulliver  unthinkingly  with- 
draws a  rattle  with  which  he  has  been  amus- 
ing baby  Moss,  u  whereupon  she,  being  a  baby 
that  knew  her  own  mind  with  remarkable 
clearness,  instantaneously  expressed  her  sen- 
timents in  a  piercing  yell,  and  was  not  to  be 
appeased  even  by  the  restoration  of  the  rattle, 
feeling  apparently  that  the  original  wrong  of 
having  it  taken  away  from  her  remained  in  all 
its  force."  But  to  some  of  us  the  anecdote  of 
Edwin  and  his  wheelbarrow  is  more  disheart- 
ening than  droll.  The  revelation  of  such  ad- 
mirable motives  underlying  such  inexcusable 
behavior  puzzles  and  alarms  us.  If  this  four- 
year-old  prig  "  contending  for  a  principle  and 
not  for  possession  "  be  a  real  boy,  what  has 
become  of  all  the  dear,  naughty,  fighting, 
obstinate,  self-willed,  precious  children  whom 
we  used  to  know  ;  the  children  who  contended 
joyously,  not  for  principle,  but  for  precedence, 
and  to  whom  we  could  say  "  don't "  a  dozen 


50  IN    THE   DOZY    HOURS. 

times  a  day  with  ample  justification.  Little 
boys  ought  to  be  the  most  delightful  things  in 
the  world,  with  the  exception  of  little  girls. 
It  is  as  easy  to  love  them  when  they  are  bad 
as  to  tolerate  them  when  they  are  good.  But 
what  can  we  do  with  conscientious  infants  to 
whom  misbehavior  is  a  moral  obligation,  and 
who  scream  in  the  public  streets  from  an  ex- 
alted sense  of  justice  ? 

Mrs.  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin,  that  ardent 
champion  of  Froebel,  has  also  given  to  the 
world  a  book  bearing  the  somewhat  ominous 
title,  "  Children's  Rights,"  but  which  is  for  the 
most  part  as  interesting  as  it  is  sane.  Setting 
aside  the  question  of  kindergartens,  concerning 
which  there  are  at  present  many  conflicting 
opinions,  it  is  impossible  not  to  agree  with 
Mrs.  Wiggin  in  much  that  she  states  so  deftly, 
and  maintains  so  vivaciously.  There  is  little 
doubt  that  the  rights  of  the  parent  do  infringe 
occasionally  on  the  rights  of  the  child,  and 
that,  in  the  absence  of  any  standard,  the  child 
becomes  a  creature  of  circumstance.  He  can 
be  fed  unwholesomely,  kept  up  late  at  night, 
dressed  like  Lord  Fauntleroy,  dosed  with  per. 
nicious  drugs,  and  humored  into  selfish  petu- 


IN   BEHALF    01-'  PARENT*.  51 

lunce  at  the  discretion  of  his  mother.  Worse 
still,  he  can  be  suffered  to  waste  away  in  fever 
pain  and  die,  because  his  pai'ents  chance  to 
be  fanatics  who  reject  the  aid  of  medicines  to 
trust  exclusively  in  prayer.  But  granting  all 
this,  fathers  and  mothers  have  still  their  places 
in  the  world,  and  until  we  can  fill  these  places 
with  something  better,  it  is  worth  while  to  call 
attention  now  and  then  to  the  useful  part  they 
play.  It  is  perhaps  a  significant  fact  that 
mothers,  simply  because  they  are  mothers, 
succeed  better,  as  a  rule,  in  bringing  up  their 
children  than  other  women,  equally  loving  and 
sensible,  who  are  compelled  to  assume  their 
duties.  That  old-fashioned  plea  "  I  know 
what  is  best  for  my  child  "  may  be  derided  as 
a  relic  of  darkness  ;  but  there  is  an  illuminat- 
ing background  to  its  gloom.  I  am  not  even 
sure  that  parents  stand  in  absolute  need  of  all 
the  good  advice  they  receive.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  many  trifles  are  not  worth  the  serious 
counsels  expended  upon  them.  Reading  or 
telling  a  story,  for  instance,  has  become  as 
grave  a  matter  as  choosing  a  laureate,  and 
many  a  mother  must  stand  aghast  at  the  con- 
flicting admonitions  bestowed  upon  her  :  Read 


52  IN   TEE   DOZY  HOURS. 

fairy  tales.  Don't  read  fairy  tales.  Read 
about  elves.  Don't  read  about  ogres.  Read 
of  heroic  deeds.  Don't  read  of  bloody  battles. 
Avoid  too  much  instruction.  Be  as  subtly  in- 
structive as  you  can.  Make  your  stories  long. 
Make  your  stories  short.  Work  the  moral  in. 
Leave  the  moral  out.  Try  and  please  the 
older  children.  Try  and  charm  the  younger 
ones.  Study  the  tastes  of  boys.  Follow  the 
fancies  of  girls.  By  degrees  the  harassed 
parent  who  endeavors  to  obey  these  instruc- 
tions will  cease  telling  stories  at  all,  confident 
that  the  task,  which  once  seemed  so  simple 
and  easy,  must  lie  far  beyond  her  limited  in- 
telligence. 

All  that  Mrs.  Wiggiii  has  to  say  about  chil- 
dren's books  and  playthings  is  both  opportune 
and  true.  I  wish  indeed  she  would  not  speak 
of  restoring  toys  "  to  their  place  in  education," 
which  has  a  dismal  sound,  though  she  does  not 
mean  it  to  be  taken  dismally.  Toys  are  toys 
to  her,  not  traps  to  erudition,  and  the  costly 
inanities  of  our  modern  nurseries  fill  her  with 
well-warranted  aversion.  We  are  doing  our 
best  to  stunt  the  imaginations  of  children  by 
overloading  them  with  illustrated  story-books 


IX  BEHALF    OF  PARENTS.  53 

and  elaborate  playthings.  Little  John  Rus- 
kin,  whose  sole  earthly  possessions  were  a  cart, 
a  ball,  and  two  boxes  of  wooden  bricks,  was 
infinitely  better  off  than  the  small  boy  of  to- 
day whose  real  engine  drags  a  train  of  real  cars 
over  a  miniature  elevated  railway,  almost  as 
ghastly  as  reality,  and  whose  well-dressed  sol- 
diers cannot  fight  until  they  are  wound  up  with 
a  key.  "  The  law  was  that  I  should  find  my 
own  amusement,"  says  liuskin  ;  and  he  found 
it  readily  enough  in  the  untrammeled  use  of 
his  observation,  his  intelligence,  and  his  fancy. 
I  have  known  children  to  whom  a  dozen  spools 
had  a  dozen  distinct  individualities  ;  soldiers, 
priests,  nuns,  and  prisoners  of  war ;  and  to 
whom  every  chair  in  the  nursery  was  a  well- 
tried  steed,  familiar  alike  with  the  race-course 
and  the  Holy  Land,  having  its  own  name,  and 
requiring  to  be  carefully  stabled  at  night  after 
the  heroic  exertions  of  the  day.  The  roman- 
ces and  dramas  of  infancy  need  no  more  set- 
ting than  a  Chinese  play,  and  in  that  limitless 
dreamland  the  transformations  are  as  easy  as 
they  are  brilliant.  But  110  child  can  success- 
fully "make  believe,"  when  he  is  encumbered 
on  every  side  by  mechanical  toys  so  odiously 


54  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

complete  that  they  leave  nothing  for  the  imagi- 
nation to  supply. 

In  the  matter  of  books,  Mrs.  Wiggin  dis- 
plays the  same  admirable  conservatism,  her 
modern  instincts  being  checked  and  held  in 
sway  by  the  recollection  of  those  few  dear  old 
volumes  which  little  girls  used  to  read  over 
and  over  again,  until  they  knew  them  by  heart. 
Yet  I  hardly  think  that  "  naughty  "  is  a  kind 
word  to  apply  to  Miss  Edgeworth's  Rosamond, 
who  is  not  very  wise,  I  admit,  and  under  no 
circumstances  a  prig,  but  always  docile  and 
charming  and  good.  And  why  should  the 
"red  morocco  housewife,"  which  Rosamond,  in 
one  of  her  rare  moments  of  discretion,  chooses 
instead  of  a  stone  plum,  be  stigmatized  as 
"  hideous  but  useful."  It  may  have  been  an 
exceedingly  neat  and  pretty  possession.  We 
are  told  nothing  to  the  contrary,  and  I  had  a 
brown  one  stamped  with  gold  when  I  was  a 
little  girl,  which,  to  my  infant  eyes  represented 
supreme  artistic  excellence.  It  also  hurts  my 
feelings  very  much  to  hear  Casabiauca  dubbed 
an  "  inspired  idiot,"  who  lacked  the  sense  to 
escape.  Unless  the  Roman  sentries  found 
dead  at  their  posts  in  Pompeii  were  also  in- 


IN   BEHALF    OF  PARENTS.  OD 

spired  idiots,  there  should  be  some  kinder 
word  for  the  blind  heroism  which  subordinates 
reason  to  obedience.  And  I  am  by  no  means 
sure  that  this  form  of  relentless  nineteenth- 
century  criticism  does  not  do  more  to  vulgarize 
a  child's  mind  by  destroying  his  simple  ideals, 
than  do  the  frank  old  games  which  Mrs.  Wig- 
gin  considers  so  boorish,  and  which  fill  her 
with  "unspeakable  shrinking  and  moral  dis- 
gust." The  coarseness  of  "  Here  come  two 
ducks  a-roving,"  which  was  once  the  blithest 
of  pastorals,  and  of  that  curious  relic  of  anti- 
quity, "  Green  Gravel,"  is  not  of  a  hurtful 
kind,  and  some  of  these  plays  have  a  keen 
attraction  for  highly  imaginative  children. 
For  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  that  all  the  kin- 
dergarten games  in  Christendom,  all  the  gentle 
joy  of  pretending  you  were  a  swallow  and  had 
your  little  baby  swallows  cuddled  under  your 
wing,  can  compare  for  an  instant  with  the  lost 
delight  of  playing  "  London  Bridge  "  in  the 
dusk  of  a  summer  evening,  or  in  the  dimly-lit 
schoolroom  at  bedtime.  There  was  a  mysteri- 
ous fascination  in  the  words  whose  meaning 
no  one  understood,  and  no  one  sought  to  un- 
derstand :  — 


56  IN   THE    DOZY  HOURS. 

"  Here  comes  a  candle  to  light  you  to  bed 
And  here  comes  a  hatchet  to  cut  off  your  head." 

And  then  the  sudden  grasp  of  four  strong 
little  arms,  and  a  pleasing  thrill  of  terror  at  a 
danger  which  was  no  danger,  —  only  a  shadow 
and  a  remembrance  of  some  dim  horror  in  the 
past,  living  for  generations  in  the  unbroken 
traditions  of  play. 

I  have  wandered  unduly  from  the  wrongs 
of  parents  to  the  rights  of  children,  an  easy 
and  agreeable  step  to  take.  But  the  children 
have  many  powerful  advocates,  and  need  no 
help  from  me.  The  parents  stand  undefended, 
and  suffer  grievous  things  in  the  way  of  coun- 
sel and  reproach.  It  must  surprise  some  of 
them  occasionally  to  be  warned  so  often  against 
undue  severity.  It  must  amaze  them  to  hear 
that  their  lazy  little  boys  and  girls  are  suffer- 
ing from  overwork,  and  in  danger  of  mental 
exhaustion.  It  must  amuse  them  —  if  they 
have  any  sense  of  humor  —  to  be  told  in  the 
columns  of  a  weekly  paper  "  How  to  Reprove 
a  Child,"  just  as  they  are  told  "  How  to  Make 
an  Apple  Pudding,"  and  "  How  to  Remove 
Grease  Spots  from  Clothing."  As  for  the 
discipline  of  the  nursery,  that  has  become  a 


i-'  or  PARENTS.  57 

matter  of  supreme  importance  to  all  whom  it 
does  not  concern,  and  the  suggestions  offered, 
the  methods  urged,  are  so  varied  and  conflict- 
ing that  the  modern  mother  can  be  sure  of  one 
thing  only,  —  all  that  she  does  is  wrong.  The 
most  popular  theory  appears  to  be  that  when- 
ever a  child  is  naughty  it  is  his  parent's  fault, 
and  she  owes  him  prompt  atonement  for  his 
misbehavior.  "  We  should  be  astonished,  if 
not  appalled,"  says  Mrs.  Aldrich,  "  if  we  could 
see  in  figures  the  number  of  times  the  average 
child  is  unnecessarily  censured  during  the  first 
seven  years  of  life."  Punishment  is  altogether 
out  of  favor.  Its  apparent  necessity  arises 
from  the  ill-judged  course  of  the  father  or 
mother  in  refusing  to  a  child  control  over  his 
own  actions.  This  doctrine  was  expounded  to 
us  some  years  ago  by  Helen  Hunt,  who  rea- 
soned wisely  that  "  needless  denials  "  were  re- 
sponsible for  most  youthful  naughtiness,  and 
who  was  probably  right.  It  would  not  perhaps 
be  too  much  to  say  that  if  we  could  have  what 
we  wanted  and  do  what  we  wanted  all  through 
life,  we  should,  even  as  adults,  be  saved  from 
a  great  deal  of  fretfulness  and  bad  behavior. 
Miss  Nora  Smith,  who  is  Mrs.  AYiggin's 


58  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

clever  collaborateur,  allows,  however,  what  she 
terms  "  natural  punishment,"  or  "  natural  re- 
tribution," which  appears  to  be  something  like 
the  far-famed  justice  of  the  Mikado,  and  is 
represented  as  being  absolutely  satisfactory  to 
the  child.  This  is  a  gain  over  the  old  methods 
which  the  child,  as  a  rule,  disliked  ;  and  it  is 
also  a  gain  over  the  long-drawn  tests  so  ur- 
gently commended  by  Helen  Hunt,  whose 
model  mother  shut  herself  up  for  two  whole 
days  with  her  four-year-old  boy,  until  she  suc- 
ceeded, by  moral  suasion,  in  inducing  him  to 
say  G.  During  these  two  days  the  model 
mother's  equally  model  husband  was  content 
to  eat  his  meals  alone,  and  to  spend  his  even- 
ings in  solitude,  unless  he  went  to  his  club,  and 
all  her  social  and  domestic  duties  were  cheer- 
fully abandoned.  Her  principle  was,  not  to 
enforce  obedience,  but  to  persuade  the  child  to 
overcome  his  own  reluctance,  to  conquer  his 
own  will.  With  this  view,  she  pretended  for 
forty-eight  hours  that  he  could  not  pronounce 
the  letter,  and  that  she  was  there  to  help  him 
to  do  it.  The  boy,  baby  though  he  was,  knew 
better.  He  knew  he  was  simply  obstinate,  and, 
with  the  delicious  clear-sightedness  of  children, 
which  ought  to  put  all  sentimental  theorists 


IN  BEHALF   OF  PARENTS.  59 

to  shame,  lie  actually  proposed  to  his  parent 
that  she  should  shut  him  in  a  closet  and  see  if 
that  would  not  "make  him  good  !  "  Of  course 
the  unhallowed  suggestion  was  not  adopted  ; 
but  what  a  tale  it  tells  of  childish  acumen,  and 
of  that  humorous  grasp  of  a  situation  which  is 
the  endowment  of  infancy.  The  dear  little 
sensible,  open-eyed  creatures  !  See  them  deal- 
ing out  swift  justice  to  their  erring  dolls,  and 
you  will  learn  their  views  upon  the  subject  of 
retribution.  I  once  knew  a  father  who  de- 
fended himself  for  frequently  thrashing  an 
only  and  idolized  son  —  who  amply  merited 
each  chastisement  —  by  saying  that  Jack  would 
think  him  an  idiot  if  he  did  n't.  That  father 
was  lamentably  ignorant  of  much  that  it  be- 
hooves a  father  now  to  acquire.  He  had 
probably  never  read  a  single  book  designed 
for  the  instruction  and  humiliation  of  parents. 
He  was  in  a  state  of  barbaric  darkness  con- 
cerning the  latest  theories  of  education.  But 
he  knew  one  thing  perfectly,  and  that  one 
thing,  says  Sir  Francis  Doyle,  is  slipping  fast 
from  the  minds  of  men  ;  namely,  "  The  inten- 
tion of  the  Almighty  that  there  should  exist 
for  a  certain  time  between  childhood  and  man- 
hood, the  natural  production  known  as  a  boy." 


AUT  CAESAR  AUT   NIHIL. 

THERE  is  a  sentence  in  one  of  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  earliest  and  most  charming  papers, 
"  The  Cowslip  Ball,"  which  has  always  de- 
lighted me  by  its  quiet  satire  and  admirable 
good-temper.  She  is  describing  her  repeated 
efforts  and  her  repeated  failures  to  tie  the 
fragrant  clusters  together. 

"We  went  on  very  prosperously,  considering, 
as  people  say  of  a  young  lady's  drawing,  or  a 
Frenchman's  English,  or  a  woman's  tragedy, 
or  of  the  poor  little  dwarf  who  works  without 
fingers,  or  the  ingenious  sailor  who  writes  with 
his  toes,  or  generally  of  any  performance 
which  is  accomplished  by  means  seemingly  in- 
adequate to  its  production." 

Here  is  precisely  the  sentiment  which  Dr. 
Johnson  embodied,  more  trenchantly,  in  his 
famous  criticism  of  female  preaching.  "  Sir,, 
a  woman's  preaching  is  like  a  dog  walking  on 
its  hind  legs.  It  is  not  done  well,  but  you  are 
surprised  to  find  it  done  at  all."  It  is  a  seuti- 


AUT    C^SAR    AUT   NIHIL.  61 

ment  which,  in  one  form  or  another,  prevailed 
throughout  the  last  century,  and  lapped  over 
into  the  middle  of  our  own.  Miss  Mitford  is 
merely  echoing,  with  cheerful  humor,  the 
opinions  of  the  very  clever  and  distinguished 
men  whom  it  was  her  good  fortune  to  know, 
and  who  were  all  the  more  generous  to  her 
and  to  her  sister  toilers,  because  it  did  not 
occur  to  them  for  a  moment  that  women 
claimed,  or  were  ever  going  to  claim,  a  serious 
place  by  their  sides.  There  is  nothing  clearer, 
in  reading  the  courteous  and  often  flattering 
estimate  of  woman's  work  which  the  critics  of 
fifty  years  ago  delighted  in  giving  to  the 
world,  than  the  under-current  of  amusement 
that  such  things  should  be  going  on.  Chris- 
topher North,  who  has  only  censure  and  con- 
tempt for  the  really  great  poets  of  his  day,  is 
pleased  to  lavish  kind  words  on  Mrs.  Hemans 
and  Joanna  Baillie,  praising  them  as  adults 
occasionally  praise  clever  and  good  children. 
That  neither  he  nor  his  boon  companions  of 
the  "  Noctes  "  are  disposed  to  take  the  matter 
seriously,  is  sufficiently  proved  by  North's  gal- 
lant but  controvertible  statement  that  all 
female  poets  are  handsome.  "  No  truly  ugly 


62  7JV    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

woman  ever  yet  wrote  a  truly  beautiful  poem 
the  length  of  her  little  finger."  The  same 
satiric  enjoyment  of  the  situation  is  apparent 
in  Thackeray's  description  of  Barnes  New- 
come's  lecture  on  "  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  the  Poe- 
try of  the  Affections,"  as  delivered  before  the 
appreciative  audience  of  the  Newcome  Athe- 
naeum. The  distinction  which  the  lecturer 
draws  between  man's  poetry  and  woman's  poe- 
try, the  high-flown  civility  with  which  he 
treats  the  latter,  the  platitudes  about  the  Chris- 
tian singer  appealing  to  the  affections,  and 
decorating  the  homely  threshold,  and  wreath- 
ing flowers  around  the  domestic  hearth  ;  —  all 
these  graceful  and  generous  nothings  are  the 
tributes  laid  without  stint  at  the  feet  of  that 
fragile  creature  known  to  our  great-grand- 
fathers as  the  female  muse. 

It  may  as  well  be  admitted  at  once  that  this 
tone  of  combined  diversion  and  patronage  has 
changed.  Men,  having  come  in  the  course  of 
years  to  understand  that  women  desire  to  work, 
and  need  to  work,  honestly  and  well,  have 
made  room  for  them  with  simple  sincerity,  and 
stand  ready  to  compete  with  them  for  the  cov- 
eted prizes  of  life.  This  is  all  that  can  in  fair- 


AUT    C^XSAK    ACT   A'/////,.  63 

ness  be  demanded  ;  and,  it'  we  are  not  equipped 
for  the  struggle,  we  must  expect  to  be  beaten, 
until  we  are  taught,  as  Napoleon  taught  the 
Allies,  how  to  fight.  We  gain  nothing  by  do- 
ing for  ourselves  what  man  has  ceased  to  do 
for  us,  —  setting  up  little  standards  of  our  own, 
and  rapturously  applauding  one  another  when 
the  easy  goal  is  reached.  We  gain  nothing  by 
withdrawing  ourselves  from  the  keenest  com- 
petition, because  we  know  we  shall  be  outdone. 
We  gain  nothing  by  posing  as  "  women 
workers,"  instead  of  simply  "  workers  ;  "  or  by 
separating  our  productions,  good  or  bad,  from 
the  productions,  good  or  bad,  of  men.  As  for 
exacting  any  special  consideration  on  the  score 
of  sex,  that  is  not  merely  an  admission  of 
failure  in  the  present,  but  of  hopelessness  for 
the  future.  If  we  are  ever  to  accomplish  any- 
thing admirable,  it  must  be  by  a  frank  admis- 
sion of  severe  tests.  There  is  no  royal  road 
for  woman's  feet  to  follow. 

As  we  stand  now,  our  greatest  temptation 
to  mediocrity  lies  in  our  misleading  content ; 
and  this  content  is  fostered  by  our  incorrigible 
habit  of  considering  ourselves  a  little  aside 
from  the  grand  march  of  human  events.  Why 


64  IN    THE    DOZY  HOURS. 

should  a  new  magazine  be  entitled  "  Woman's 
Progress,"  as  if  the  progress  of  woman  were 
one  thing,  and  the  progress  of  man  another? 
If  we  are  two  friendly  sexes  working  hand  in 
hand,  how  is  it  possible  for  either  to  progress 
alone  ?  Why  should  I  be  asked  to  take  part  in  a 
very  animated  discussion  on  "  What  constitutes 
the  success  of  woman  ? "  Woman  succeeds 
just  as  man  succeeds,  through  force  of  charac- 
ter. She  has  no  minor  tests,  or,  if  she  has, 
they  are  worthless.  Above  all,  why  should  we 
have  repeated  the  pitiful  mistake  of  putting 
woman's  work  apart  at  the  World's  Fair,  as 
though  its  interest  lay  in  its  makers  rather 
than  in  itself.  Philadelphia  did  this  seven- 
teen years  ago,  but  in  seventeen  years  women 
should  have  better  learned  their  own  worth. 
Miss  Mitford's  sentence,  with  its  italicized 
"  considering,"  might  have  been  written  around 
the  main  gallery  of  the  Woman's  Building, 
instead  of  that  curious  jumble  of  female  names 
with  its  extraordinary  suggestion  of  perspec- 
tive, —  Mme.  de  Stael  and  Mrs.  Potter  Palmer, 
Pocahontas  and  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe.  The 
erection  of  such  a  building  was  a  tacit  ac- 
knowledgment of  inferior  standards,  and 


AUT    (\ESAR    AUT    Mil  If,.  OO 

therein  lies  our  clanger.  All  that  was  good 
and  valuable  beneath  its  roof  should  have  been 
placed  elsewhere,  standing  side  by  side  with 
the  similar  work  of  men.  All  that  was  un- 
worthy of  such  competition  should  have  been 
excluded,  as  beneath  our  dignity,  as  well 
as  beneath  the  dignity  of  the  Exposi- 
tion. Patchwork  quilts  in  fifteen  thousand 
pieces,  paper  flowers,  nicely  stitched  aprons, 
and  badly  painted  little  memorandum-books 
do  not  properly  represent  the  attitude  of  the 
ability  of  women.  We  are  not  begging  for 
consideration  and  applause  ;  we  are  striving 
to  do  our  share  of  the  world's  work,  and  to  do 
it  as  well  as  men. 

Shall  we  ever  succeed  ?  It  is  not  worth 
while  to  ask  ourselves  a  question  which  none 
can  answer.  Reasoning  by  analogy,  we  never 
shall.  Hoping  in  the  splendid  possibilities  of 
an  unknown  future,  we  may.  But  idle  conten- 
tion over  what  has  been  done  already  is  not 
precisely  the  best  method  of  advance.  To 
wrangle  for  months  over  the  simple  and  ob- 
vious statement  that  there  have  been  no  great 
women  poets,  is  a  lamentable  waste  of  energy, 
and  leads  to  no  lasting  jrood.  To  examine 


66  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

with  fervent  self-consciousness  the  exact  result 
of  every  little  step  we  take,  the  precise  atti- 
tude of  the  world  toward  us,  while  we  take  it, 
is  a  retarding  and  unwholesome  process. 
Why  should  an  indefatigable  philanthropist, 
like  Miss  Frances  Power  Cobbe,  have  paused 
in  her  noble  labor  to  write  such  a  fretful  sen- 
tence as  this  ? 

"  It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  keep  in  mind  the 
true  dignity  of  womanhood,  in  face  of  the 
deep,  underlying  contempt  wherewith  all  but 
the  most  generous  of  men  regard  us." 

Perhaps  they  do,  though  the  revelation  is  a 
startling  one,  and  the  last  thing  we  had  ever 
suspected.  Nevertheless,  the  sincere  and  sin- 
gle-minded worker  is  not  asking  herself  anxious 
questions  anent  man's  contempt,  but  is  pre- 
serving "  the  true  dignity  of  womanhood  "  by 
going  steadfastly  on  her  appointed  road,  and 
doing  her  daily  work  as  well  as  in  her  lies. 
Neither  does  she  consider  the  conversion  of 
man  to  a  less  scornful  frame  of  mind  as  the 
just  reward  of  her  labors.  She  has  other  and 
broader  interests  at  stake.  For  my  own  part, 
I  have  a  liking  for  those  few  writers  who  are 
admirably  explicit  in  their  contempt  for  wo- 


AUT    C.ESAR    AUT   N  III  1 1..  67 

men,  and  I  find  them  more  interesting  and 
more  stimulating  than  the  "  generous  "  men 
who  stand  forth  as  the  champions  of  our 
sex,  and  are  insufferably  patronizing  in  their 
championship.  When  Schopenhaiier  says 
distinctly  that  women  are  merely  grown-up 
babies,  short-sighted,  frivolous,  and  occupying 
an  intermediate  stage  between  children  and 
men  ;  when  he  protests  vigorously  against  the 
absurd  social  laws  which  permit  them  to  share 
the  rank  and  titles  of  their  husbands,  and  in- 
sists that  all  they  require  is  to  be  well  fed 
and  clothed,  I  feel  a  sincere  respect  for  this 
honest  statement  of  unpopular  and  somewhat 
antiquated  views.  Lord  Byron,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, professed  the  same  opinions,  but 
his  ingenuousness  is  by  no  means  so  apparent. 
Edward  Fitzgerald's  distaste  for  women  writers 
is  almost  winning  in  its  gentle  candor.  Rus- 
kin,  despite  his  passionate  chivalry,  reiterates 
with  tireless  persistence  his  belief  that  woman 
is  man's  helpmate,  and  no  more.  Theoreti- 
cally, he  is  persuasive  and  convincing.  Prac- 
tically, he  is  untouched  by  the  obtrusive  fact 
that  many  thousands  of  women  are  never  called 
on  to  be  the  helpmates  of  any  men,  fathers, 


68  IN    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

brothers,  or  husbands,  but  must  stand  or  fall 
alone.  Upon  their  learning  to  stand  depends 
much  of  the  material  comfort,  as  well  as  the 
finer  morality,  of  the  future. 

And  surely,  the  first  and  most  needful  les- 
son for  them  to  acquire  is  to  take  themselves 
and  their  work  with  simplicity,  to  be  a  little 
less  self-conscious,  and  a  little  more  sincere. 
In  all  walks  of  life,  in  all  kinds  of  labor,  this 
is  the  beginning  of  excellence,  and  proficiency 
follows  in  its  wake.  We  talk  so  much  about 
thoroughness  of  training,  and  so  little  about 
singleness  of  purpose.  We  give  to  every  girl  in 
our  public  schools  the  arithmetical  knowledge 
which  enables  her  to  stand  behind  a  counter 
and  cast  up  her  accounts.  That  there  is  some- 
thing else  which  we  do  not  give  her  is  suf- 
ficiently proven  by  her  immediate  adoption  of 
that  dismal  word,  "  saleslady,"  with  its  pitiful 
assumption  of  what  is  not,  its  pitiful  disregard 
of  dignity  and  worth.  I  own  I  am  dispirited 
when  I  watch  the  more  ambitious  girls  who 
attend  our  great  schools  of  manual  training 
and  industrial  art.  They  are  being  taught  on 
generous  and  noble  lines.  The  elements  of 
beauty  and  appropriateness  enter  into  their 


AUT    CsESAR   AUT   NIHIL.  69 

hourly  work.  And  yet  —  their  tawdry  finery, 
the  nodding  flower-gardens  011  their  hats,  the 
gilt  ornaments  in  their  hair,  the  soiled  kid 
gloves  too  tight  for  their  broad  young  hands, 
the  crude  colors  they  combine  so  pitilessly  in 
their  attire,  their  sweeping  and  bedraggled 
skirts,  their  shrill,  unmodulated  voices,  their 
giggles  and  ill-controlled  restlessness — are 
these  the  outward  and  visible  results  of  a 
training  avowedly  refining  and  artistic  ?  Are 
these  the  pupils  whose  future  work  is  to  raise 
the  standard  of  beauty  and  harmonious  devel- 
opment ?  Something  is  surely  lacking  which 
no  technical  skill  can  supply.  Now,  as  in  the 
past,  character  is  the  base  upon  which  all  true 
advancement  rests  secure. 

Higher  in  the  social  and  intellectual  scale, 
and  infinitely  more  serious  in  their  ambitions, 
are  the  girl  students  of  our  various  colleges. 
As  their  numbers  increase,  and  their  superior 
training  becomes  less  and  less  a  matter  of 
theory,  and  more  and  more  a  matter  of  course, 
these  students  will  combine  at  least  a  portion 
of  their  present  earnestness  with  the  healthy 
commonplace  rationality  of  college  men.  At 
present  they  are  laboring  under  the  disadvan- 


70  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

tage  of  being  the  exceptions  instead  of  the 
rule.  The  novelty  of  their  position  dazes 
them  a  little ;  and,  like  the  realistic  story-tell- 
ers and  the  impressionist  painters,  they 
are  perhaps  more  occupied  with  their  points 
of  view  than  with  the  things  they  are 
viewing.  This  is  not  incompatible  with  a 
very  winning  simplicity  of  demeanor,  and  the 
common  jest  which  represents  the  college  girl 
as  prickly  with  the  asperities  of  knowledge,  is 
a  fabric  of  man's  jocund  and  inexhaustible  im- 
agination. Mr.  Barrie,  it  is  true,  tells  a  very 
amusing  story  of  being  invited,  as  a  mere  lad, 
to  meet  some  young  women  students  at  an 
Edinburgh  party,  and  of  being  frightened  out 
of  his  scanty  self-possession  when  one  of  them 
asked  him  severely  whether  he  did  not  con- 
sider that  Berkeley's  immaterialism  was 
founded  on  an  ontological  misconception. 
But  even  Mr.  Barrie  has  a  fertile  fancy,  and 
perhaps  the  experience  was  not  quite  so  bad 
as  it  sounds.  There  is  more  reason  in  the 
complaint  I  have  heard  many  times  from  mo- 
thers, that  college  gives  their  daughters  a 
distaste  for  social  life,  and  a  rather  ungracious 
disregard  for  its  amenities  and  obligations. 


AUT   CAESAR   AUT  NIIIIL.  71 

But  college  does  not  give  men  a  distaste  for 
social  life.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  best 
possible  training  for  that  bigger,  broader  field 
in  which  the  ceaseless  contact  with  their  fel- 
low-creatures rounds  and  perfects  the  many- 
sidedness  of  manhood.  If  college  girls  are 
disposed  to  overestimate  the  importance  of 
lectures,  and  to  underestimate  the  importance 
of  balls,  this  is  merely  a  transient  phase  of 
criticism,  and  has  no  lasting  significance.  Lec- 
tures and  balls  are  both  very  old.  They  have 
played  their  parts  in  the  history  of  the  world 
for  some  thousands  of  years ;  they  will  go  on 
playing  them  to  the  end.  Let  us  not  exagger- 
ate personal  preference,  however  contagious  it 
may  appear,  into  a  symbol  of  approaching  re- 
volution. 

For  our  great  hope  is  this :  As  university 
training  becomes  less  and  less  exceptional  for 
girls,  they  will  insensibly  acquire  broader  and 
simpler  views ;  they  will  easily  understand 
that  life  is  too  big  a  thing  to  be  judged  by 
college  codes.  As  the  number  of  women  doc- 
tors and  women  architects  increases  with  every 
year,  they  will  take  themselves,  and  be  taken 
by  the  world,  with  more  simplicity  and  candor. 


72  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

They  will  also  do  much  better  work  when  we 
have  ceased  writing  papers,  and  making 
speeches,  to  signify  our  wonder  and  delight 
that  they  should  be  able  to  work  at  all ;  when 
we  have  ceased  patting  and  praising  them  as 
so  many  infant  prodigies.  Perhaps  the  time 
may  even  come  when  women,  mixing  freely  in 
political  life,  will  abandon  that  injured  and 
aggressive  air  which  distinguishes  the  present 
advocate  of  female  suffrage.  Perhaps,  oh, 
joyous  thought !  the  hour  may  arrive  when 
women  having  learned  a  few  elementary  facts 
of  physiology,  will  not  deem  it  an  imperative 
duty  to  embody  them  at  once  in  an  unwhole- 
some novel.  These  unrestrained  disclosures 
which  are  thrust  upon  us  with  such  curious 
zest,  are  the  ominous  fruits  of  a  crude  and 
hasty  mental  development ;  but  there  are  some 
sins  which  even  ignorance  can  only  partially 
excuse.  Things  seen  in  the  light  of  ampler 
knowledge  have  a  different  aspect,  and  bear 
a  different  significance ;  but  the  "  fine  and 

O 

delicate  moderation  "  which  Mine,  de  Souza 
declared  to  be  woman's  natural  gift,  should 
preserve  her,  even  when  semi-instructed,  from 
Jill  UTOSS  offences  against  good  taste.  More- 


AUT    CsESAR   AUT   N1IIIL.  73 

over  "  whatever  emancipates  our  minds  with- 
out giving  us  the  mastery  of  ourselves  is  de- 
structive," and  if  the  intellectual  freedom  of 
woman  is  to  be  a  noble  freedom  it  must  not 
degenerate  into  the  privilege  of  thinking  what- 
ever she  likes,  and  saying  whatever  she  pleases. 
That  instinctive  refinement  which  she  has  ac- 
quired in  centuries  of  self-repression  is  not  a 
quality  to  be  undervalued,  or  lightly  thrust 
aside.  If  she  loses  "  the  strength  that  lies  in 
delicacy,"  she  is  weaker  in  her  social  emanci- 
pation than  in  her  social  bondage. 

The  word  "  Virago,"  in  the  Renaissance, 
meant  a  woman  of  culture,  character,  and 
charm  ;  a  "  man-like  maiden  "  who  combined 
the  finer  qualities  of  both  sexes.  The  gradual 
debasement  of  a  word  into  a  term  of  reproach 
is  sometimes  a  species  of  scandal.  It  is  wil- 
fully perverted  in  the  course  of  years,  and 
made  to  tell  a  different  tale,  —  a  false  tale, 
probably,  — which  generations  receive  as  true. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  sometimes  marks  the 
swift  degeneracy  of  a  lofty  ideal.  In  either 
case,  the  shame  and  pity  are  the  same.  Hap- 
pily, as  we  are  past  the  day  when  men  looked 
askance  upon  women's  sincere  efforts  at  ad- 


74  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

vancement,  so  we  are  past  the  day  when  wo- 
men deemed  it  profitable  to  ape  distinctly 
masculine  traits.  We  have  outgrown  the  first 
rude  period  of  abortive  and  misdirected 
energy,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  the  millen- 
nium has  been  reached.  Mr.  Arnold  has  ven- 
tured to  say  that  the  best  spiritual  fruit  of 
culture  is  to  keep  man  from  a  self-satisfaction 
which  is  retarding  and  vulgarizing,  yet  no  one 
recognized  more  clearly  than  he  the  ungra- 
cious nature  of  the  task.  What  people  really 
like  to  be  told  is  that  they  are  doing  all  things 
well,  and  have  nothing  to  learn  from  anybody. 
This  is  the  reiterated  message  from  the  gods 
of  which  the  daily  press  delivers  itself  so  sapi- 
ently,  and  by  which  it  maintains  its  popularity 
and  power.  This  is  the  tone  of  all  the  nice 
little  papers  about  woman's  progress,  and  wo- 
man's work,  and  woman's  influence,  and  wo- 
man's recent  successes  in  literature,  science, 
and  art.  "  I  gain  nothing  by  being  with  such 
as  myself,"  sighed  Charles  Lamb,  with  noble 
discontent.  "  We  encourage  one  another  in 
mediocrity"  This  is  what  we  women  are  do- 
ing with  such  apparent  satisfaction  ;  we  are 
encouraging  one  another  in  mediocrity.  Wo 


AUT   CAESAR   AUT  NIHIL.  75 

are  putting  up  easy  standards  of  our  own,  in 
place  of  the  best  standards  of  men.  We  are 
sating  our  vanity  with  small  and  ignoble  tri- 
umphs, instead  of  struggling  on,  defeated, 
routed,  but  unconquered  still,  with  hopes  high 
set  upon  the  dazzling  mountain-tops  which  we 
may  never  reach. 


A  NOTE   ON  MIRRORS. 

HEINRICH  HEINE,  who  had  a  particularly 
nice  and  discriminating  taste  in  ghosts,  and 
who  studied  with  such  delicate  pleasure  the 
darkly  woven  fancies  of  German  superstition, 
frankly  admitted  that  to  see  his  own  face  by 
moonlight  in  a  mirror  thrilled  him  with  inde- 
finable horror.  Most  of  us  who  are  blessed, 
or  burdened,  with  imaginations  have  shared  at 
moments  in  this  curious  fear  of  that  smooth, 
shining  sheet  of  glass,  which  seems  to  hold 
within  itself  some  power  mysterious  and  ma- 
lign. By  daytime  it  is  commonplace  enough, 
and  lends  itself  with  facile  ease  to  the  cheerful 
and  homely  nature  of  its  surroundings.  But 
at  dusk,  at  night,  by  lamplight,  or  under  the 
white,  insinuating  moonbeams,  the  mirror  as- 
sumes a  distinctive  and  uncanny  character 
of  its  own.  Then  it  is  that  it  reflects  that 
which  we  shrink  from  seeing.  Then  it  is  that 
our  own  eyes  meet  us  with  an  unnatural  stare 
and  a  piercing  intelligence,  as  if  another  soul 


A   NOTE    ON  MIRRORS.  77 

were  watching  us  from  their  depths  with  fur- 
tive, startled  inquiry.  Then  it  is  that  the  in- 
visible something  in  the  room,  from  which  the 
merciful  dullness  of  mortality  has  hitherto 
saved  us,  may  at  any  instant  take  sudden 
shape,  and  be  seen,  not  in  its  own  form,  but 
reflected  in  the  treacherous  glass,  which,  like 
the  treacheroiis  water,  has  the  power  of  be- 
traying things  that  the  air,  man's  friendly 
element,  refuses  to  reveal. 

This  wise  mistrust  of  the  ghostly  mirror  is  so 
old  and  so  far  spread  that  we  meet  with  it  in 
the  folk  lore  of  every  land.  An  English  tra- 
dition warns  us  that  the  new  moon,  which 
brings  us  such  good  fortune  when  we  look  at 
it  in  the  calm  evening  sky,  carries  a  message 
of  evil  to  those  who  see  it  first  reflected  in  a 
looking-glass.  For  such  unlucky  mortals  the 
lunar  virus  distils  slow  poison  and  corroding 
care.  The  child  who  is  suffered  to  see  his 
own  image  in  a  mirror  before  he  is  a  year  old 
is  marked  out  for  trouble  and  many  disappoint- 
ments. The  friends  who  glance  at  their  reflec- 
tions standing  side  by  side  are  doomed  to 
quick  dissension.  The  Swedish  girl  who  looks 
into  her  glass  by  candlelight  risks  the  loss  of 


78  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

her  lover.  A  universal  superstition,  which 
has  found  its  way  even  to  our  own  prosaic 
time  and  country,  forbids  a  bride  to  see  her- 
self in  a  mirror  after  her  toilet  is  completed. 
If  she  be  discreet,  she  turns  away  from  that 
fair  picture  which  pleases  her  so  well,  and 
then  draws  on  her  glove,  or  has  some  tiny  rib- 
bon, flower,  or  jewel  fastened  to  her  gown,  that 
the  sour  Fates  may  be  appeased,  and  evil 
averted  from  her  threshold.  In  Warwickshire 
and  other  parts  of  rural  England  it  was  long 
the  custom  to  cover  all  the  looking-glasses  in  a 
house  of  death,  lest  some  affrighted  mortal 
should  behold  in  one  the  pale  and  shrouded 
corpse  standing  by  his  side.  There  is  a 
ghastly  story  of  a  servant  maid  who,  on  leav- 
ing the  chamber  where  her  dead  master  lay, 
glanced  in  the  uncovered  mirror,  and  saw  the 
sheeted  figure  on  the  bed  beckoning  her  rig- 
idly to  its  side. 

Some  such  tale  as  this  must  have  been  told 
me  in  my  infancy,  for  in  no  other  way  can  I 
account  for  the  secret  terror  I  felt  for  the 
little  oval  mirror  which  hung  by  my  bed  at 
school.  Every  night  I  turned  it  carefully 
with  its  face  to  the  wall,  lest  by  some  evil 


A    XOTK    O.V    MIRRORS.  79 

chance  I  should  arise  and  look  in  it.  Every 
night  I  was  tormented  with  the  same  haunting 
notion  that  I  had  not  remembered  to  turn  it  •, 
and  then,  shivering  with  cold  and  fright,  I 
would  creep  out  of  bed,  and,  with  averted 
head  and  tightly  shut  eyes,  feel  my  way  to  the 
wretched  thing,  and  assure  myself  of  what  I 
knew  already,  that  its  harmless  back  alone 
confronted  me.  I  never  asked  myself  what 
it  was  I  feared  to  see  ;  —  some  face  that  was 
not  mine,  some  apparition  born  of  the  dark- 
ness and  of  my  own  childish  terror.  Nor  can 
I  truly  say  that  this  apprehension,  inconven- 
ient though  it  seemed  on  chilly  winter  nights, 
did  not  carry  with  it  a  vague,  sweet  pleasure 
of  its  own.  Little  girls  of  eleven  may  be  no 
better  nor  wiser  for  the  scraps  of  terrifying 
folk  lore  which  formed  part  of  my  earliest 
education,  yet  in  one  respect,  at  least,  I  tri- 
umphed by  their  aid.  Even  the  somewhat 
spiritless  monotony  of  a  convent  school  was 
not  without  its  vivifying  moments  for  a  child 
who  carried  to  bed  with  her  each  night  a 
horde  of  goblin  fears  to  keep  her  imagination 
lively. 

Superstitions    of   a    less    ghostly    character 


80  IN    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

cluster  around  the  mirror,  and  are  familiar  to 
us  all.  To  break  one  is  everywhere  an  evil 
omen.  "  Seven  years'  trouble,  but  no  want," 
follow  fast  upon  such  a  mishap  in  Yorkshire, 
while  in  Scotland,  the  cracking  of  a  looking- 
glass,  like  the  falling  of  the  doomed  man's 
picture  from  the  wall,  is  a  presage  of  ap- 
proaching death.  Such  portents  as  these, 
however,  —  though  no  one  who  is  truly  wise 
presumes  to  treat  them  with  levity,  —  are 
powerless  to  thrill  us  with  that  indefinable 
and  subtle  horror  which  springs  from  cause- 
less emotions.  Scott,  in  his  prologue  to  "  Aunt 
Margaret's  Mirror,"  has  well  defined  the  pecu- 
liar fear  which  is  without  reason  and  without 
cure.  The  old  lady  who  makes  her  servant 
maid  draw  a  curtain  over  the  glass  before  she 
enters  her  bedroom,  "  so  that  she  "  (the  maid) 
"  may  have  the  first  shock  of  the  apparition, 
if  there  be  any  to  be  seen,"  is  of  far  too  prac- 
tical a  turn  to  trouble  herself  about  the  ra- 
tionality of  her  sensations.  "  Like  many 
other  honest  folk,"  she  does  not  like  to  look 
at  her  own  reflection  by  candlelight,  because 
it  is  an  eerie  thing  to  do.  Yet  the  tale  she 
tells  of  the  Paduan  doctor  and  his  magic  mir. 


A    NOTE    OX    MIRRORS.  81 

ror  is,  on  the  other  hand,  neither  interesting 
nor  alarming.  It  has  all  the  dreary  qualities 
of  a  psychical  research  report  which  cannot 
even  provoke  us  to  a  disbelief. 

In  fact,  divining-crystals,  when  known  as 
such  professionally,  are  tame,  hard-working, 
almost  respectable  institutions.  In  the  good 
old  days  of  necromancy,  magicians  had  no 
need  of  such  mechanical  appliances.  Any  re- 
flecting surface  would  serve  their  turn,  and  a 
bowl  of  clear  water  was  enough  to  reveal  to 
them  all  that  they  wanted  to  know.  It  was  of 
more  importance,  says  Brand,  "  to  make  choice 
of  a  young  maid  to  discern  therein  those  im- 
ages or  visions  which  a  person  defiled  cannot 
see."  Even  the  famous  mirror,  through  whose 
agency  Dr.  Dee  and  his  seer,  Kelly,  were  said 
to  have  discovered  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  was 
in  reality  nothing  more  than  a  black  polished 
stone,  closely  resembling  coal. 

(>  Kelly  did  all  his  feats  upon 
The  devil's  looking-glass,  a  stone." 

Yet  in  an  old  Prayer-Book  of  1737  there  is  a 
woodciit  representing  the  king  and  Sir  Ken- 
elm  Digby  gazing  into  a  circular  mirror,  in 
which  are  reflected  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 


82  Ji\    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

and  a  man  entering  them  with  a  dark  lantern 
in  his  hand.  Above,  the  eye  of  Providence  is 
seen  darting  a  ray  of  light  upon  the  mirror. 
Below  are  legs  and  hoofs,  as  of  evil  spirits  fly- 
ing rapidly  away.  The  truth  is,  so  many  con- 
flicting details  are  related  of  Dr.  Dee's  usefid 
and  benevolent  possession  that  it  has  lost  a  lit- 
tle of  its  vraisemblance.  We  are  wont  to 
rank  it  confusedly  with  such  mystic  treasures 
as  the  mirror  which  told  the  fortunate  Alas- 
nam  whether  or  not  a  maid  were  as  chaste  as 
she  was  beautiful,  or  the  glass  which  Reynard 
described  with  such  minute  and  charming 
falsehoods  to  the  royal  lioness,  who  would  fain 
have  gratified  her  curiosity  by  a  sight  of  its 
indiscreet  revelations. 

It  is  never  through  magic  mirrors,  nor  crys- 
tal balls,  nor  any  of  the  paraphernalia  now  so 
abundantly  supplied  by  painstaking  students 
of  telepathy  that  we  approach  that  shadowy 
land  over  which  broods  perpetual  fear.  Let 
us  rather  turn  meekly  back  to  the  fairy-taught 
minister  of  Aberfoyle,  and  learn  of  him  the 
humiliating  truth  that  "  every  drop  of  water 
is  a  Mirrour  to  ret  urn e  the  Species  of  Things, 
were  our  visive  Faculty  sharpe  enough  to  ap- 


A   NOTE   ON  MIRRORS.  83 

prehend  them."  In  other  words,  we  stand  in 
need,  not  of  elaborate  appliances,  but  of  a 
chastened  spirit.  If  we  seek  the  supernatural 
with  the  keen  apprehension  which  is  begotten 
of  credulity  and  awe,  we  shall  never  find  our- 
selves disappointed  in  our  quest.  The  same 
reverend  authority  tells  us  that  "  in  a  Witch's 
Eye  the  Beholder  cannot  see  his  own  Image 
reflected,  as  in  the  Eyes  of  other  people," 
which  is  an  interesting  and,  it  may  be,  a  very 
useful  thing  to  know. 

Two  curious  stories  having  relation  to  the 
ghostly  character  of  the  mirror  will  best  serve 
to  illustrate  my  text.  The  first  is  found  in 
Shelley's  journal ;  one  of  the  inexhaustible 
store  supplied  to  the  poet  by  "  Monk  "  Lewis, 
and  is  about  a  German  lady  who,  dancing  with 
her  lover  at  a  ball,  saw  in  a  glass  the  reflec- 
tion of  her  dead  husband  gazing  at  her  with 
stern,  reproachful  eyes.  She  is  said  to  have 
died  of  terror.  The  second  tale  is  infinitely 
more  picturesque.  In  the  church  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella  at  Florence  is  the  beautiful 
tomb  of  Beata  Villana,  the  daughter  of  a  no- 
ble house,  and  married  in  extreme  youth  to 
one  of  the  family  of  Beniuteudi.  Tradition 


84  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

says  that  she  was  very  fair,  and  that,  being 
arrayed  one  night  for  a  festival,  she  stood 
looking  long  in  the  mirror,  allured  by  her  own 
loveliness.  Suddenly  her  eyes  were  opened, 
and  she  saw,  close  by  her  side,  a  demon 
dressed  with  costly  raiment  like  her  own,  and 
decked  with  shining  jewels  like  those  she  wore 
upon  her  arms  and  bosom.  Appalled  by  this 
vision  of  evil,  Beata  Villana  fled  from  the 
vanities  of  the  world,  and  sought  refuge  in  a 
convent,  where  she  died  a  holy  death  in  1360, 
being  then  but  twenty-eight  years  of  age. 
Her  marble  effigy  rests  on  its  carven  bed  in 
the  old  Florentine  church,  and  smiling  angels 
draw  back  the  curtains  to  show  her  sweet, 
dead  beauty,  safe  at  last  from  the  perilous 
paths  of  temptation.  In  such  a  legend  as  this 
there  lingers  for  us  still  the  elements  of  mys- 
tery and  of  horror  which  centuries  of  prosaic 
progress  are  powerless  to  alienate  from  that 
dumb  witness  of  our  silent,  secret  hours,  the 
mirror. 


GIFTS. 

THERE  is  a  delightful  story,  which  we  owe 
to  Charles  Lever's  splendid  mendacity,  of  an 
old  English  lady  who  sent  to  Garibaldi,  dur- 
ing that  warrior's  confinement  at  Varignano,  a 
portly  pincushion  well  stocked  with  British 
pins.  Her  enthusiastic  countrywomen  had 
already  supplied  their  idol  with  woolen  under- 
wear, and  fur-lined  slippers,  and  intoxicating 
beverages,  and  other  articles  equally  useful  to 
an  abstemious  prisoner  of  war  in  a  hot  cli- 
mate ;  but  pins  had  been  overlooked  until  this 
thoughtful  votary  of  freedom  offered  her  trib- 
ute at  its  shrine. 

Absurd  though  the  tale  appears,  it  has  its 
counterparts  in  more  sober  annals,  and  few 
men  of  any  prominence  have  not  bewailed  at 
times  their  painful  popularity.  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  who  was  the  recipient  of  many  gifts, 
had  his  fair  share  of  vexatious  experiences, 
and  laughs  at  them  somewhat  ruefully  now 
and  then  in  the  pages  of  his  journal.  Eight 


86  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

large  and  very  badly  painted  landscapes,  "in 
great  gilded  frames,"  were  given  him  by  one 
"most  amiable  and  accomplished  old  lady." 
She  had  ordered  them  from  an  impoverished 
amateur  whom  she  desired  to  befriend,  and 
then  palmed  them  off  on  Sir  Walter,  who  was 
too  gentle  and  generous  to  protest.  A  more 
"whimsical  subject  of  affliction  "  was  the 
presentation  of  two  emus  by  a  Mr.  Harmer, 
a  settler  in  Botany  Bay,  to  whom  Scott  had 
given  some  useful  letters  of  introduction. 
"  I  wish  his  gratitude  had  either  taken  a 
different  turn,  or  remained  as  quiescent  as 
that  of  others  whom  I  have  obliged  more 
materially,"  writes  Sir  Walter  in  his  jour- 
nal. "I  at  first  accepted  the  creatures, 
conceiving  them,  in  my  ignorance,  to  be 
some  sort  of  blue  and  green  parrots,  which, 
though  I  do  not  admire  their  noise,  might 
scream  and  yell  at  their  pleasure,  if  hung 
up  in  the  hall  among  the  armor.  But  your 
emu,  it  seems,  stands  six  feet  high  on  his 
stocking  soles,  and  is  little  better  than  a 
kind  of  cassowary  or  ostrich.  Hang  them! 
They  might  eat  up  my  collection  of  old 
arms,  for  what  I  know." 


GIFTS.  87 

Filially,  like  the  girl  who  was  converted 
at  a  revival,  and  who  gave  her  blue  ribbons 
to  her  sister  because  she  knew  they  were 
taking  her  to  hell,  Scott  got  himself  out 
of  the  scrape  by  passing  on  the  emus,  as 
a  sort  of  feudal  offering,  to  the  Duke  of 
Buccleugh,  and  leaving  that  nobleman  to 
solve  as  best  he  could  the  problem  of  their 
maintenance.  The  whole  story  is  very  much 
like  the  experience  of  Mr.  James  Payn's  law- 
yer friend,  to  whom  a  "  grateful  orphan " 
sent  from  the  far  East  a  dromedary,  with 
the  pleasant  assurance  that  its  hump  was 
considered  extremely  delicate  eating.  As 
this  highly  respected  member  of  the  Lon- 
don bar  could  not  well  have  the  dromedary 
butchered  for  the  sake  of  its  hump, — 
even  if  he  had  yearned  over  the  dish, — 
and  as  he  was  equally  incapable  of  riding 
the  beast  to  his  office  every  morning,  he 
considered  himself  fortunate  when  the  Zoo- 
logical Gardens  opened  their  hospitable  gates 
and  the  orphan's  tribute  disappeared  therein, 
to  be  seen  and  heard  of  no  more. 

Charles  Lamb,  on  the  other  hand,  if  we 
may  trust  the  testimony  of  his  letters, 


88  7AT   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

appears  to  have  derived  a  keen  and  kindly 
pleasure  from  the  more  reasonable  and  mod- 
est presents  of  his  friends.  Perhaps,  like 
Steele,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  point  of 
morality  to  be  obliged  to  those  who  endeav- 
ored to  oblige  him.  Perhaps  it  was  easy 
for  one  so  lovable  to  detect  the  honest  affec- 
tion which  inspired  these  varied  gifts.  It 
is  certain  we  find  him  returning  genial 
thanks,  now  to  Hazlitt  for  a  pig,  now  to 
Wordsworth  for  a  "  great  armful "  of  poetry, 
and  now  to  Thomas  Allsop  for  some  Stilton 
cheese,  —  "  the  delicatest,  rainbow-hued,  melt- 
ing piece  I  ever  flavored."  He  seems  equally 
gratified  with  an  engraving  of  Pope  sent  by 
Mr.  Procter,  and  with  another  pig,  —  "a 
dear  pigmy,"  he  calls  it,  — •  the  gift  of 
Mrs.  Bruton.  Nor  is  it  only  in  these  let- 
ters of  acknowledgment — wherein  courtesy 
dispenses  occasionally  with  the  companion- 
ship of  truth  —  that  Lamb  shows  himself 
a  generous  recipient  of  his  friends'  good 
will.  He  writes  to  Wordsworth,  who  has 
sent  him  nothing,  and  expresses  his  frank 
delight  in  some  fruit  which  lias  been  left 
early  that  morning  at  his  door  :  — 


GIFTS.  89 

u  There  is  something  inexpressibly  pleas- 
ant to  me  in  these  presents,  be  it  fruit, 
or  fowl,  or  brawn,  or  what  not.  Books  are 
a  legitimate  cause  of  acceptance.  If  pre- 
sents be  not  the  soul  of  friendship,  they 
are  undoubtedly  the  most  spiritual  part 
of  the  body  of  that  intercourse.  There  is 
too  much  narrowness  of  thinking  on  this 
point.  The  punctilio  of  acceptance,  ine- 
thinks,  is  too  confined  and  strait-laced.  I 
could  be  content  to  receive  money,  or 
clothes,  or  a  joint  of  meat  from  a  friend. 
Why  should  he  not  send  me  a  dinner  as  well 
as  a  desert  ?  I  would  taste  him  in  all  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  and  through  all  creation. 
Therefore  did  the  basket  of  fruit  of  the 
juvenile  Talfourd  not  displease  me." 

It  is  hard  not  to  envy  Talfourd  when  one 
reads  these  lines.  It  is  hard  not  to  envy 
any  one  who  had  the  happiness  of  giving 
fruit,  or  cheese,  or  pigs  to  Charles  Lamb. 
How  gladly  would  we  all  have  brought  our 
offerings  to  his  door,  and  have  gone  away 
with  bounding  hearts,  exulting  in  the 
thought  that  our  pears  would  deck  his 
table,  our  pictures  his  wall,  our  books  his 


90  7.V    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

scanty  shelves !  "  People  seldom  read  a 
book  which  is  given  to  them,"  observes 
Dr.  Johnson,  with  his  usual  discouraging 
acumen ;  but  Lamb  found  leisure,  amid 
heavy  toil,  to  peruse  the  numerous  volumes 
which  small  poets  as  well  as  big  ones  thought 
fit  to  send  him.  He  accepted  his  gifts  with 
a  charming  munificence  which  suggests  those 
far-off,  fabulous  days  when  presents  were 
picturesque  accessories  of  life ;  when  hosts 
gave  to  their  guests  the  golden  cups  from 
which  they  had  been  drinking ;  and  sultans 
gave  their  visitors  long  trains  of  female 
slaves,  all  beautiful,  and  carrying  jars  of 
jewels  upon  their  heads ;  and  Merlin  gave 
to  Gwythnothe  famous  hamper  which  mul- 
tiplied its  contents  an  hundredfold,  and  fed 
the  starving  hosts  in  storm-swept  Caradi- 
gion.  In  those  brave  years,  large-hearted 
men  knew  how  to  accept  as  well  as  how  to 
give,  and  they  did  both  with  an  easy  grace 
for  which  our  modern  methods  offer  no  ade- 
quate opportunity.  Even  in  the  veracious 
chronicles  of  Imgiology,  the  old  harmonious 
sentiment  is  preserved,  and  puts  us  to  the 
blush.  St.  Martin  sharing  his  cloak  with 


91 

the  beggar  at  the  gates  of  Tours  was  hardly 
what  we  delight  in  calling  practical;  yet 
not  one  shivering  outcast  only,  but  all  man- 
kind would  have  been  poorer  had  that  man 
tie  been  withheld.  King  Canute  taking  off 
his  golden  crown,  and  laying  it  humbly  on 
St.  Edmund's  shrine,  stirs  our  hearts  a  little 
even  now ;  while  Queen  Victoria  sending 
fifty  pounds  to  a  deserving  charity  excites 
in  us  no  stronger  sentiment  than  esteem. 
It  was  easier,  perhaps,  for  a  monarch  to  do 
a  gracious  and  a  princely  deed  when  his 
crown  and  sceptre  were  his  own  property 
instead  of  belonging  to  the  state ;  and  pic- 
turesqueness,  ignore  it  as  we  may,  is  a 
quality  which,  like  distinction,  "fixes  the 
world's  ideals." 

These  noble  and  beautiful  benefactions, 
however,  are  not  the  only  ones  which  linger 
pleasantly  in  our  memories.  Gifts  there 
have  been,  of  a  humble  and  domestic  kind, 
the  mere  recollection  of  which  is  a  continual 
delight.  I  love  to  think  of  Jane  Austen's 
young  sailor  brother,  her  "own  particular 
little  brother,"  Charles,  spending  his  first 
prize  money  in  gold  chains  and  "topaze 


92  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

crosses "  for  his  sisters.  What  prettier, 
warmer  picture  can  be  called  to  mind  than 
this  handsome,  gallant,  light-hearted  lad  — • 
handsomer,  Jane  jealously  insists,  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  family  —  bringing  back 
to  his  quiet  country  home  these  innocent  tro- 
phies of  victory  ?  Surely  it  was  the  pleasure 
Miss  Austen  felt  in  that  "  topaze "  cross, 
that  little  golden  chain,  which  found  such 
eloquent  expression  in  Fanny  Price's 
mingled  rapture  and  distress  when  her 
sailor  brother  brought  her  the  amber  cross 
from  Sicily,  and  Edmund  Bertram  offered 
her,  too  late,  the  chain  on  which  to  hang 
it.  It  is  a  splendid  reward  that  lies  in 
wait  for  boyish  generosity  when  the  sister 
chances  to  be  one  of  the  immortals,  and 
hands  down  to  generations  of  readers  the 
charming  record  of  her  gratitude  and  love. 

By  the  side  of  this  thoroughly  English  pic- 
ture should  be  placed,  in  justice  and  in  har- 
mony, another  which  is  as  thoroughly 
German,  —  llahel  Varnhagen  sending  to 
her  brother  money  to  bring  him  to  Berlin. 
The  letter  which  accompanies  this  sisterly 
gift  is  one  of  the  most  touching  in  literature. 


GIFTS.  93 

The  brilliant,  big-hearted  woman  is  yearning 
for  her  kinsman's  face.  She  has  saved  the 
trifling  sum  required  through  many  unnamed 
denials.  She  gives  it  as  generously  as  if  it 
cost  her  nothing.  Yet  with  that  wise  thrift 
which  goes  hand  in  hand  with  liberality,  she 
warns  her  brother  that  her  husband  knows 
nothing  of  the  matter.  Not  that  she  mistrusts 
his  nature  for  a  moment.  He  is  good  and 
kind,  but  he  is  also  a  man,  and  has  the  custom- 
ary shortsightedness  of  his  sex.  "  He  will 
think,"  she  writes,  "that  I  have  endless 
resources,  that  I  am  a  millionaire,  and  will 
forget  to  economize  in  the  future." 

Ah,  painful  frugality  of  the  poor  Father- 
land !  Here  is  nothing  picturesque,  nor  lav- 
ish, nor  light-hearted,  to  tempt  our  jocund 
fancies.  Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  gener- 
ous soul  refuses  to  be  stinted  of  its  joy ;  and 
the  golden  crown  of  King  Canute  is  not  more 
charming  to  contemplate  than  are  the  few 
coins  wrested  from  sordid  needs,  and  given 
with  a  glad  munificence  which  makes  them 
splendid  as  the  ransom  of  a  prince. 


HUMOR:   ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN. 

NATIONS,  like  individuals,  stand  self-be- 
trayed in  their  pastimes  and  their  jests.  The 
ancient  historians  recognized  this  truth,  and 
thought  it  well  worth  their  while  to  gossip 
pleasantly  into  the  ears  of  attentive  and  grate- 
ful generations.  Cleopatra  playfully  outwit- 
ting Anthony  by  fastening  a  salted  fish  to  the 
boastful  angler's  hook  is  no  less  clear  to  us 
than  Cleopatra  sternly  outwitting  Ca3sar  with 
the  poison  of  the  asp,  and  we  honor  Plutarch 
for  confiding  both  these  details  to  the  world. 
Their  verity  has  nothing  to  do  with  their 
value  or  our  satisfaction.  The  mediaeval 
chroniclers  listened  rapturously  to  the  clamor 
of  battle,  and  found  all  else  but  war  too  trivial 
for  their  pens.  The  modern  scholar  produces 
that  pitiless  array  of  facts  known  as  constitu- 
tional history  ;  and  labors  under  the  strange 
delusion  that  acts  of  Parliament,  or  acts  of 
Congress,  reform  bills,  and  political  pamphlets 
represent  his  country's  life.  If  this  sordid 


HUMOR:     EXGL1XH    AXD    AM  ERIC  AX.        Oo 

devotion  to  the  concrete  suffers  no  abatement, 
the  intelligent  reader  of  the  future  will  be 
compelled  to  reconstruct  the  nineteenth  century 
from  the  pages  of  "  Punch  "  and  "  Life,"  from 
faded  play-bills,  the  records  of  the  race-track, 
and  the  inextinguishable  echo  of  dead  laughter. 
For  man  lives  in  his  recreations,  and  is  re- 
vealed to  us  by  the  search-light  of  an  epigram. 
Humor,  in  one  form  or  another,  is  character- 
istic of  every  nation  ;  and  reflecting  the  salient 
points  of  social  and  national  life,  it  illuminates 
those  crowded  corners  which  history  leaves 
obscure.  The  laugh  that  we  enjoy  at  our  own 
expense  betrays  us  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
and  the  humorists  of  England  and  America 
have  been  long  employed  in  pointing  out  with 
derisive  fingers  their  own,  and  not  their  neigh- 
bor's shortcomings.  If  we  are  more  reckless 
in  our  satire,  and  more  amused  at  our  own 
wit,  it  is  because  we  are  better  tempered,  and 
newer  to  the  game.  The  delight  of  being  a 
nation,  and  a  very  big  nation  at  that,  has  not 
yet  with  us  lost  all  the  charm  of  novelty,  and 
we  pelt  one  another  with  ridicule  after  the 
joj-ously  aggressive  fashion  of  schoolboys  pelt- 
ing one  another  with  snowballs.  Already 


96  IN   THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

there  is  a  vast  array  of  seasoned  and  recog- 
nized jokes  which  are  leveled  against  every 
city  in  the  land.  The  culture  of  Boston,  the 
slowness  of  Philadelphia,  the  ostentation  of 
New  York,  the  arrogance  and  ambition  of 
Chicago,  the  mutual  jealousy  of  Minneapolis 
and  St.  Paul,  —  these  are  themes  of  which  the 
American  satirist  never  wearies,  these  are 
characteristics  which  he  has  striven,  with  some 
degree  of  success,  to  make  clear  to  the  rest  of 
mankind.  Add  to  them  our  less  justifiable 
diversion  at  official  corruption  and  misman- 
agement, our  glee  over  the  blunders  and  ras- 
calities of  the  men  whom  we  permit  to  govern 
us,  and  we  have  that  curious  combination  of 
keenness  and  apathy,  of  penetration  and  in- 
difference which  makes  possible  American 
humor. 

Now  Englishmen,  however  prone  to  laugh 
at  their  own  foibles,  do  not,  as  a  rule,  take  their 
politics  lightly.  Those  whom  I  have  known 
were  most  depressingly  serious  when  discuss- 
ing the  situation  with  friends,  and  most  dis- 
agreeably violent  when  by  chance  they  met 
an  opponent.  Neither  do  they  see  anything 
funny  in  being  robbed  by  corporations  ;  but, 


III'MOR:     ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.        97 

with  discouraging  and  unhumorous  tenacity, 
exact  payment  of  the  last  farthing  of  debt, 
fulfilment  of  the  least  clause  in  a  charter. 
Our  lenity  in  such  matters  is  a  trait  which 
they  fail  to  understand,  and  are  disinclined  to 
envy.  One  of  the  most  amusing  scenes  I  ever 
witnessed  was  an  altercation  between  an  ex- 
ceedingly clever  Englishwoman,  who  for  years 
has  taken  a  lively  part  in  public  measures,  and 
a  countrywoman  of  my  own,  deeply  imbued 
with  that  gentle  pessimism  which  insures  con- 
tentment, and  bars  reform.  The  subject  un- 
der discussion  was  the  street-car  service  of 
Philadelphia  (which  would  have  been  primi- 
tive for  Asia  Minor),  and  the  Englishwoman 
was  expressing  in  no  measured  terms  her 
amazement  at  such  comprehensive  and  un- 
qualified inefficiency.  In  vain  my  American 
friend  explained  to  her  that  this  car-service 
was  one  of  the  most  diverting  things  about  our 
Quaker  city,  that  it  represented  one  of  those 
humorous  details  which  gave  Philadelphia  its 
distinctly  local  color.  The  Englishwoman 
declined  to  be  amused.  "  I  do  not  understand 
you  in  the  least,"  she  said  gravely.  "  You 
have  a  beautiful  city,  of  which  you  should  be 


98  JN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

proud.  You  have  disgraceful  streets  and 
trams,  of  which  you  should  be  ashamed.  Yet 
you  ridicule  your  city  as  if  you  were  ashamed 
of  that,  and  defend  your  trams  as  if  you  were 
proud  of  them.  If  you  think  it  funny  to  be 
imposed  on,  you  will  never  be  at  a  loss  for  a 
joke." 

Yet  corruption  in  office,  like  hypocrisy  in 
religion,  has  furnished  food  for  mirth  ever 
since  King  Log  and  King  Stork  began  their 
beneficent  reigns.  Diogenes  complained  that 
the  people  of  Athens  liked  to  have  the  things 
they  should  have  held  most  dear  pelted  with 
dangerous  banter.  Kant  found  precisely  the 
same  fault  with  the  French,  and  even  the  his- 
tory of  sober  England  is  enlivened  by  its  share 
of  such  satiric  laughter.  "  Wood  was  dear  at 
Newmarket,''  said  a  wit,  when  Sir  Henry  Mon- 
tague received  there  the  white  staff  which 
made  him  Lord  High  Treasurer  of  England, 
for  which  exalted  honor  he  had  paid  King 
James  the  First  full  twenty  thousand  pounds. 
The  jest  sounds  so  light-hearted,  so  free  from 
any  troublesome  resentment,  that  it  might 
have  been  uttered  in  America ;  but  it  is  well 
to  remember  that  such  witticisms  pointed  un- 


HUMOR:     KXGLISn   AX  I)    AMERICAX.        09 

erringly  to  the  tragic  downfall  of  the  Stuarts. 
Indeed,  the  gayest  laugh  occasionally  rings  a 
death-knell,  and  so  our  humorists  wield  a 
power  which  could  hardly  be  entrusted  into 
better  hands.  "  Punch  "  has  the  cleanest  record 
of  any  English  journal.  It  has  ever  —  save 
for  those  perverse  and  wicked  slips  which  cost 
it  the  friendship  of  stouthearted  Richard 
Doyle  —  allied  itself  with  honor  and  honesty, 
and  that  sane  tolerance  which  is  the  basis  of 
humor.  "  Life  "  has  fought  an  even  braver 
fight,  and  has  been  the  active  champion  of  all 
that  is  helpless  and  ill-treated,  the  advocate 
of  all  that  is  honorable  and  sincere.  The 
little  children  who  crawl,  wasted  and  fever- 
stricken,  through  the  heated  city  streets,  the 
animals  that  pay  with  prolonged  pain  for  the 
pleasures  of  scientific  research,  —  these  hap- 
less victims  of  our  advanced  civilization  find 
their  best  friend  in  this  New  York  comic  paper. 
The  girl  whose  youth  and  innocence  are  bar- 
tered for  wealth  in  the  open  markets  of  matri- 
mony, sees  no  such  vigorous  protest  against 
her  degradation  as  in  its  wholesome  pages.  It 
is  scant  praise  to  say  that  "  Life  "  does  more 
to  quicken  charity,  and  to  purify  social  corrup- 


100  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

tion  than  all  the  religious  and  ethical  journals 
in  the  country.  This  is  the  natural  result  of 
its  reaching  the  proper  audience.  It  has  the 
same  beneficent  effect  that  sermons  would 
have  if  they  were  preached  to  the  non-church- 
going  people  who  require  them. 

When  we  have  learned  to  recognize  the  fact 
that  humor  does  not  necessarily  imply  fun,  we 
will  better  understand  the  humorist's  attitude 
and  labors.  There  is  nothing,  as  a  rule,  very 
funny,  in  the  weekly  issues  of  "  Punch,"  and 
"  Puck,"  and  "  Life."  Many  of  the  jokes  ought 
to  be  explained  in  a  key  like  that  which  ac- 
companied my  youthful  arithmetic  ;  and  those 
which  need  no  such  deciphering  are  often  so 
threadbare  and  feeble  from  hard  usage,  that 
it  is  scarcely  decent  to  exact  further  service 
from  them.  It  has  been  represented  to  us 
more  than  once  that  the  English,  being  conser- 
vative in  the  matter  of  amusement,  prefer 
those  jests  which,  like  "  old  Grouse  in  the  gun- 
room," have  grown  seasoned  in  long  years  of 
telling.  "  Slow  to  understand  a  new  joke," 
says  Mrs.  Pemiell,  "  they  are  equally  slow  to 
part  with  one  that  has  been  mastered."  But 
there  are  some  time-honored  jests  —  the  young 


HUMOR:    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN.       301 

housekeeper's  pie,  for  example,  and  the  tramp 
who  is  unable  to  digest  it  —  which  even  a  con- 
servative American,  if  such  an  anomaly  exists, 
would  relinquish  dry-eyed  and  smiling.  It  is 
not  for  such  feeble  waggery  as  this  that  we 
value  our  comic  journals,  but  for  those  vital 
touches  which  illuminate  and  betray  the  tragic 
farce  called  life.  "  Punch's  "  cartoon  depicting 
Bismarck  as  a  discharged  pilot,  gloomily  quit- 
ting the  ship  of  state,  while  overhead  the 
young  emperor  swaggers  and  smiles  derisively, 
is  in  itself  an  epitome  of  history,  a  realization 
of  those  brief  bitter  moments  which  mark 
the  turning-point  of  a  nation  and  stand  for  the 
satire  of  success.  "  Life's  "  sombre  picture  of 
the  young  wife  bowing  her  head  despairingly 
over  the  piano,  as  though  to  shut  out  from  her 
gaze  her  foolish,  besotted  husband,  is  an  un- 
flinching delineation  of  the  most  sordid,  pitiful 
and  commonplace  of  all  daily  tragedies.  In 
both  these  masterly  sketches  there  is  a  grim 
humor,  softened  by  kindliness,  and  this  is  the 
key-note  of  their  power.  They  are  as  unlike 
as  possible  in  subject  and  in  treatment,  but  the 
undercurrent  of  human  sympathy  is  the  same. 
Is  it  worth  while,  then,  to  be  so  contentious 


102  IX    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

over  the  superficial  contrasts  of  English  and 
American  humor,  when  both  spring  from  the 
same  seed,  and  nourish  the  same  fruit  ?  Why 
should  we  resent  one  another's  methods,  or 
deny  one  another's  success  ?  If,  as  our  critics 
proudly  claim,  we  Americans  have  a  quicker 
perception  of  the  ludicrous,  the  English  have 
a  finer  standard  by  which  to  judge  its  worth. 
If  we,  as  a  nation,  have  more  humor,  they 
have  better  humorists,  and  can  point  serenely 
to  those  unapproached  and  unapproachable 
writers  of  the  eighteenth  century,  whose  splen- 
did ringing  laughter  still  clears  the  murky  air. 
It  is  true,  I  am  told  now  and  then,  with  com- 
mendable gravity,  that  such  mirth  is  unbecom- 
ing in  a  refined  and  critical  age,  and  that,  if  I 
would  try  a  little  harder  to  follow  the  some- 
what elusive  satire  of  the  modern  analyst,  I 
should  enjoy  a  species  of  pleasantry  too  deli- 
cate or  too  difficult  for  laughter.  I  hesitate  to 
affirm  coarsely  in  reply  that  I  like  to  laugh, 
because  it  is  possible  to  be  deeply  humiliated 
by  the  contempt  of  one's  fellow-creatures.  It 
is  possible  also  to  be  sadly  confused  by  new 
theories  and  new  standards ;  by  the  people 
who  tell  me  that  exaggerated  types,  like  Mr. 


HUMOR:    ENGLISH   AND    AMERICAN.      10.3 

Micavvbor  and  Mrs.  Gamp,  are  not  amusing, 
and  by  the  critics  who  are  so  good  as  to  reveal 
to  me  the  depths  of  my  own  delusions.  "  We 
have  long-  ago  ceased  to  be  either  surprised, 
grieved,  or  indignant  at  anything  the  English 
say  of  us,"  writes  Mr.  Charles  Dudley  War- 
ner. "  We  have  recovered  our  balance.  We 
know  that  since  '  Gulliver  '  there  has  been  no 
piece  of  original  humor  produced  in  England 
equal  to  Knickerbocker's  '  New  York  ; '  that 
not  in  this  century  has  any  English  writer 
equaled  the  wit  and  satire  of  the  '  Biglow  Pa- 
pers.' " 

Does  this  mean  that  Mr.  Warner  considers 
Washington  Irving  to  be  the  equal  of  Jona- 
than Swift ;  that  he  places  the  gentle  satire  of 
the  American  alongside  of  those  trenchant 
and  masterly  pages  which  constitute  the  land- 
marks of  literature  ?  "  Swift,"  says  Dr.  John- 
son, with  reluctant  truthfulness,  "  must  be  al- 
lowed for  a  time  to  have  dictated  the  political 
opinions  of  the  English  nation."  He  is  a 
writer  whom  we  may  be  permitted  to  detest, 
but  not  to  undervalue.  His  star,  red  as  Mars, 
still  flames  fiercely  in  the  horizon,  while  the 
genial  lustre  of  Washington  Irving  grows 


104  JN    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

dimmer  year  by  year.  We  can  never  hope  to 
"  recover  our  balance  "  by  confounding  values, 
a  process  of  self-deception  which  misleads  no 
one  but  ourselves. 

Curiously  enough,  at  least  one  Englishman 
may  be  found  who  cordially  agrees  with  Mr- 
Warner.  The  Rev.  R.  H.  Haweis  has  en- 
riched the  world  with  a  little  volume  on  Amer- 
ican humorists,  in  which  he  kindly  explains  a 
great  deal  which  we  had  thought  tolerably 
clear  already,  as,  for  example,  why  Mark 
Twain  is  amusing.  The  authors  whom  Mr. 
Haweis  has  selected  to  illustrate  his  theme  are 
Washington  Irving,  Dr.  Holmes,  Mr.  Lowell, 
Artemus  Ward,  Mark  Twain  and  Bret  Harte ; 
and  he  arranges  this  somewhat  motley  group 
into  a  humorous  round-table,  where  all  hold 
equal  rank.  Pie  is  not  only  generous,  he  is 
strictly  impartial  in  his  praise  ;  and  manifests 
the  same  cordial  enthusiasm  for  Boston's  "  Au- 
tocrat "  and  for  "The  Innocents  Abroad." 
Artemus  Ward's  remark  to  his  hesitating  au- 
dience :  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen  !  You  can- 
not expect  to  go  in  without  paying  your 
money,  but  you  can  pay  your  money  without 
going  in,"  delights  our  kindly  critic  beyond 


HUMOR.    ENGLISH   AND    AMERICAN.      105 

measure.  "  Was  there  ever  a  wittier  motto 
than  this  ?  "  he  asks,  with  such  good-natured 
exultation  that  we  have  a  vague  sense  of  self- 
reproach  at  not  being  more  diverted  by  the 
pleasantry. 

Now  Mr.  Ilaweis,  guided  by  that  dangerous 
instinct  which  drives  us  on  to  unwarranted 
comparisons,  does  not  hesitate  to  link  the 
fame  of  Knickerbocker's  "  New  York "  with 
the  fame  of  "  Gulliver's  Travels,"  greatly  to 
the  disadvantage  of  the  latter.  "  Irving,"  he 
gravely  declares,  "has  all  the  satire  of  Swift, 
without  his  sour  coarseness."  It  would  be  as 
reasonable  to  say,  "  Apollinaris  has  all  the  vi- 
vacity of  brandy,  without  its  corrosive  insalu- 
brity." The  advantages  of  Apollinaris  are 
apparent  at  first  sight.  It  sparkles  pleasantly, 
it  is  harmless,  it  is  refreshing,  it  can  be  con- 
sumed in  large  quantities  without  any  partic- 
ular result.  Its  merits  are  incontestible  ;  but 
when  all  is  said,  a  few  of  us  still  remember 
Dr.  Johnson  —  "  Brandy,  sir,  is  a  drink  for 
heroes  ! '  The  robust  virility  of  Swift  places 
him  forever  at  the  head  of  English-speaking 
satirists.  Unpardonable  as  is  his  coarseness, 
shameful  as  is  his  cynicism,  we  must  still 


106  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

agree  with  Carlyle  that  his  humor,  "cased, 
like  Ben  Jonsoii's,  in  a  most  hard  and  bitter 
rind,"  is  too  genuine  to  be  always  unloving 
and  malign. 

The  truth  is  that,  when  not  confused  by 
critics,  we  Americans  have  a  sense  of  propor- 
tion as  well  as  a  sense  of  humor,  and  our  keen 
appreciation  of  a  jest  serves  materially  to  mod- 
ify our  national  magniloquence,  and  to  lessen 
our  national  self-esteem.  We  are  good-tem- 
pered, too,  where  this  humor  is  aroused,  and 
so  the  frank  ignorance  of  foreigners,  the  au- 
dacious disparagement  of  our  fellow  country- 
men, are  accepted  with  equal  serenity.  News- 
papers deem  it  their  duty  to  lash  themselves 
into  patriotic  rage  over  every  affront,  but  news- 
paper readers  do  not.  Surely  it  is  a  generous 
nation  that  so  promptly  forgave  Dickens  for 
the  diverting  malice  of  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit." 
I  heard  once  a  young  Irishman,  who  was  going 
to  the  World's  Fair,  ask  a  young  Englishman, 
who  had  been,  if  the  streets  of  Chicago  were 
paved,  and  the  question  was  hailed  with  cour- 
teous glee  by  the  few  Americans  present.  Bet- 
ter still,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  a 
citizen  of  Seattle,  who  was  describing  to  a 


HUMOR:   ENGLISH  AND   AMERICAN.     107 

group  of  his  townspeople  the  glories  of  the 
Fair,  and  the  magnitude  of  the  city  which  had 
brought  it  to  such  a  triumphant  conclusion. 
"Chicago,  gentlemen,"  said  this  enthusiastic 
traveler  in  a  burst  of  final  eloquence,  "  Chi- 
cago is  the  Seattle  of  Illinois."  The  splendid 
audacity  of  this  commended  it  as  much  to  one 
city  as  to  the  other  ;  and  when  it  was  repeated 
in  Chicago,  it  was  received  with  that  frank 
delight  which  proves  how  highly  we  value  the 
blessed  privilege  of  laughter. 

Perhaps  it  is  our  keener  sense  of  humor 
which  prompts  America  to  sliow  more  honor 
to  her  humorists  than  England  often  grants. 
Perhaps  it  is  merely  because  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  according  to  all  our  men  of  letters  a 
larger  share  of  public  esteem  than  a  more  cri- 
tical or  richly  endowed  nation  would  think 
their  labors  merited.  Perhaps  our  humorists 
are  more  amusing;  than  their  Enfflisli  rivals. 

O  O 

Whatever  may  be  the  cause,  it  is  un- 
doubtedly true  that  we  treat  Mr.  Stockton 
with  greater  deference  than  England  treats 
Mr.  Aiistey.  We  have  illustrated  articles 
about  him  in  our  magazines,  and  incidents  of 
his  early  infancy  are  gravely  narrated,  as 


108  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

likely  to  interest  the  whole  reading  public. 
Now  Mr.  Anstey  might  have  passed  his 
infancy  in  an  egg,  for  all  the  English  maga- 
zines have  to  tell  us  on  the  subject.  His 
books  are  bought,  and  read,  and  laughed  over, 
and  laid  aside,  and  when  there  is  a  bitter  ca- 
dence in  his  mirth,  people  are  disappointed 
and  displeased.  England  has  always  expected 
her  jesters  to  wear  the  cap  and  bells.  She 
would  have  nothing  but  foolish  fun  from 
Hood,  sacrificing  his  finer  instincts  and  his 
better  parts  on  the  shrine  of  her  own  ruthless 
desires,  and  yielding  him  scant  return  for  the 
lifelong  vassalage  she  exacted.  It  is  fitting 
that  an  English  humorist  should  have  written 
the  most  sombre,  the  most  heart-breaking,  the 
most  beautiful  and  consoling  of  tragic  stories. 
Du  Maurier  in  "  Peter  Ibbetson  "  has  taught 
to  England  the  lesson  she  needed  to  learn. 

The  best-loved  workers  of  every  nation  are 
those  who  embody  distinctly  national  charac- 
teristics, whose  work  breathes  a  spirit  of  whole- 
some national  prejudice,  who  are  children  of 
their  own  soil,  and  cannot,  even  in  fancy,  be 
associated  with  any  other  art  or  literature 
save  the  art  or  literature  of  their  fatherland. 


HUMOR:    ENGLISH   AND    AMERICAN.      109 

Tins  was  the  case  with  honest  John  Leech, 
whom  England  took  to  her  heart  and  held 
dear  because  he  was  so  truly  English,  because 
he  despised  Frenchmen,  and  mistrusted  Irish- 
men, and  hated  Jews,  and  had  a  splendid 
British  frankness  in  conveying  these  various 
impressions  to  the  world.  What  would  Leech 
have  thought  of  Peter  Ibbetson  watching  with 
sick  heart  the  vessels  bound  for  France ! 
What  a  contrast  between  the  cultured  sym- 
pathy of  Du  Maurier's  beautiful  drawings, 
and  the  real,  narrow  affection  which  Leech 
betrays  even  for  his  Staffordshire  roughs,  who 
are  British  roughs,  be  it  rememberd,  and  not 
without  their  stanch  and  sturdy  British  vir- 
tues. He  does  not  idealize  them  in  any  way. 
He  is  content  to  love  them  as  they  are. 
Neither  does  Mr.  Barrie  endeavor  to  describe 
Thrums  as  a  place  where  any  but  Thrums 
people  could  ever  have  found  life  endurable  ; 
yet  he  is  as  loyal  in  his  affection  for  that  for- 
bidding little  hamlet  as  if  it  were  Florence  the 
fair.  Bret  Harte  uses  no  alluring  colors 
with  which  to  paint  his  iniquitous  mining 
camps,  but  he  is  the  brother  at  heart  of  every 
gambler  and  desperado  in  the  diggings.  Hu- 


110  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

inanity  is  a  mighty  bond,  and  nationality 
strengthens  its  fibres.  We  can  no  more  ima- 
gine Bret  Ilarte  amid  Jane  Austen's  placid 
surroundings,  than  we  can  imagine  Dr. 
Holmes  in  a  mining-camp,  or  Henry  Fielding 
in  Boston.  Just  as  the  Autocrat  springs 
from  Puritan  ancestors,  and  embodies  the  in- 
tellectual traditions  of  New  England,  so  Tom 
Jones,  in  his  riotous  young  manhood,  springs 
from  that  lusty  Saxon  stock,  of  whose  courage, 
truthfulness,  and  good-tempered  animalism 
he  stands  the  most  splendid  representative. 
"  The  old  order  is  passed  and  the  new  arises  ;  " 
but  Sophia  Western  has  not  yet  yielded  her 
place  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  the  morbid  and 
self-centred  heroines  of  modern  fiction.  Truest 
of  all,  is  Charles  Lamb  who,  more  than  any 
other  humorist,  more  than  any  other  man  of 
letters,  perhaps,  belongs  exclusively  to  his 
own  land,  and  is  without  trace  or  echo  of 
foreign  influence.  France  was  to  Lamb,  not 
a  place  where  the  finest  prose  is  written, 
but  a  place  where  he  ate  frogs  —  "  the 
nicest  little  delicate  things  —  rabbity-flavored. 
Imagine  a  Lilliputian  rabbit."  Germany  was 
little  or  nothing,  and  America  was  less.  The 
child  of  London  streets, 


HUMOR:    ENGLISH   AND    AMERICAN.     Ill 
"  Mother  of  mightier,  nurse  of  none  more  dear," 

rich  in  tlic  splendid  literature  of  England,  and 
faithful  lover  both  of  the  teeming  city  and  the 
ripe  old  books,  Lamb  speaks  to  English  hearts 
111  a  language  they  can  understand.  And  we, 
his  neighbors,  whom  he  recked  not  of,  hold 
him  just  as  dear ;  for  his  spleenless  humor  is 
an  inheritance  of  our  mother  tongue,  one  of  the 
munificent  gifts  which  England  shares  with  us, 
and  for  which  no  payment  is  possible  save  the 
frank  and  generous  recognition  of  a  pleasure 
that  is  without  peer. 


THE     DISCOMFORTS     OF     LUXURY:     A 
SPECULATION. 

MR.  FREDERICK  HARRISON,  in  a  caustic  little 
paper  on  the  ^Esthete,  has  taken  occasion  to 
say  some  severely  truthful  things  aneiit  the 
dreary  grandeur  of  rich  men's  houses,  where 
each  individual  object  is  charming  in  itself, 
and  out  of  harmony  with  all  the  rest.  "  I  be- 
lieve," he  observes  sadly,  "  that  the  camel  will 
have  passed  through  the  eye  of  the  needle 
before  the  rich  man  shall  have  found  his  way 
to  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Beauty.  It  is  a  hard 
thing  for  him  to  enjoy  art  at  all.  The  habits 
of  the  age  convert  him  into  a  patron,  and  the 
assiduity  of  the  dealers  deprive  him  of  peace." 

Is  it,  then,  the  mere  desire  to  be  obliging 
which  induces  a  millionaire  to  surround  him- 
self with  things  which  he  does  not  want,  which 
nobody  else  wants,  and  which  are  perpetually 
in  the  way  of  comfort  and  pleasure  ?  Does  lie 
build  and  furnish  his  house  to  support  the 
dealers,  to  dazzle  his  friends,  or  to  increase  his 


THE    niXCOM PORTS    OF  LUXURY.         113 

own  earthly  happiness  and  well-being  ?  The 
serious  fashion  in  which  he  goes  to  work  ad- 
mits of  no  backsliding,  no  merciful  deviations 
from  a  relentless  luxury.  I  have  seen  ghastly 
summer  palaces,  erected  presumably  for  rest 
and  recreation,  where  the  miserable  visitor  was 
conducted  from  a  Japanese  room  to  a  Dutch 
room,  and  thence  to  something  Early  English 
or  Florentine  ;  and  such  a  jumble  of  costly 
incongruities,  of  carved  scrolls  and  blue  tiles 
and  bronze  screens  and  stained  glass,  was 
actually  dubbed  a  home.  A  home  !  The  guest, 
surfeited  with  an  afternoon's  possession,  could 
escape  to  simpler  scenes  ;  but  the  master  of 
the  house  was  chained  to  all  that  tiresome 
splendor  for  five  months  of  the  year,  and  the 
sole  compensation  he  appeared  to  derive  from 
it  was  the  saturnine  delight  of  pointing  out  to 
small  processions  of  captive  friends  every  de- 
tail which  they  would  have  preferred  to  over- 
look. It  is  a  painful  thing,  at  best,  to  live  up 
to  one's  bricabrac,  if  one  has  any  ;  but  to  live 
up  to  the  bricabrac  of  many  lands  and  of  many 
centuries  is  a  strain  which  no  wise  man  would 
dream  of  inflicting  upon  his  constitution. 

Perhaps    the    most    unlovely    circumstance 


114  IN    THE    DOZY  HOURS. 

about  the  "  palatial  residences  "  of  our  coun- 
try is  that  everything  in  them  appears  to 
have  been  bought  at  once.  Everything 
is  equally  new,  and  equally  innocent  of  any 
imprint  of  the  owner's  personality.  lie  has 
not  lived  among  his  possessions  long  enough 
to  mould  them  to  his  own  likeness,  and  very 
often  he  has  not  even  selected  them  himself. 
I  have  known  whole  libraries  purchased  in  a 
week,  and  placed  en  masxe  upon  their  des- 
tined shelves ;  whole  rooms  furnished  at  one 
fell  swoop  with  all  things  needful,  from  the 
chandelier  in  the  ceiling  to  the  Dresden  fig- 
ures in  the  cabinet.  I  have  known  people 
who  either  mistrusted  their  own  tastes,  or 
who  had  no  tastes  to  mistrust,  and  so  sur- 
rendered their  houses  to  upholsterers  and 
decorators,  giving  them  carte  Uanclie  to  do 
their  best  or  worst.  A  room  which  has  been 
the  unresisting  prey  of  an  upholsterer  is,  on 
the  whole,  the  saddest  thing  that  money  ever 
bought ;  yet  its  deplorable  completeness  calls 
forth  rapturous  commendations  from  those 
who  can  understand  no  natural  line  of  demar- 
cation between  a  dwelling-place  and  a  shop. 
The  same  curious  delight  in  handsome  things, 


THE    DISCOMFORTS    OF    LUXURY.          1  1 /> 

apart  from  any  beauty  or  fitness,  has  resulted 
in  our  over-ornamented  Pullman  cars,  with 
their  cumbrous  and  stuffy  hanging's ;  and 
in  the  aggressive  luxury  of  our  ocean  steam- 
ers, where  paint  and  gilding  run  riot,  and 
every  scrap  of  wall  space  bears  its  burden 
of  inappropriate  decoration.  To  those  for 
whom  a  sea  voyage  is  but  a  penitential  pil- 
grimage, the  fat  frescoed  Cupids  and  pink 
roses  of  the  saloons  offer  no  adequate  com- 
pensation for  their  sufferings  ;  whitewash 
and  hangings  of  sackcloth  would  harmonize 
more  closely  with  their  sentiments.  Yet 
these  ornate  embellishments  pursue  them  now 
even  to  the  solitude  of  their  staterooms,  and 
the  newest  steamers  boast  of  cabins  where 
the  wretched  traveler,  too  ill  to  arise  from 
his  berth,  may  be  solaced  by  Cupids  of  his 
own  frisking  nakedly  over  the  wash-bowl, 
and  by  pink  roses  in  profusion  festooning 
his  narrow  cell.  If  he  can  look  at  them 
without  loathing,  he  is  to  be  envied  his 
unequaled  serenity  of  mind. 

It  is  strange  that  the  authors  who  have 
written  so  much  about  luxury,  whether  they 
praise  it  satirically,  like  Mandeville,  or  con- 


116  IX    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

demn  it  very  seriously,  like  Mr.  Goldvvin 
Smith,  or  merely  inquire  into  its  history  and 
traditions,  like  that  careful  scholar,  M.  Bau- 
drillart,  should  never  have  been  struck  with 
the  amount  of  discomfort  it  entails.  In  mod- 
ern as  in  ancient  times,  the  same  zealous  pur- 
suit of  prodigality  results  in  the  same  heavy 
burden  of  undesirable  possessions.  The 
youthful  daughter  of  Marie  Antoinette  was 
allowed,  we  are  told,  four  pairs  of  shoes  a 
week ;  and  M.  Taine,  inveighing  bitterly 
against  the  extravagances  of  the  French 
court,  has  no  word  of  sympathy  to  spare  for 
the  unfortunate  little  princess,  condemned  by 
this  ruthless  edict  always  to  wear  new  shoes. 
Louis  XVI.  had  thirty  doctors  of  his  own ; 
but  surely  no  one  will  be  found  to  envy  him 
this  royal  superfluity.  He  also  had  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pages,  who  were  probably  a 
terrible  nuisance ;  and  two  chair-carriers,  who 
were  paid  twenty  thousand  livres  a  year  to 
inspect  his  Majesty's  chairs,  which  duty  they 
solemnly  performed  twice  a  day,  whether 
they  were  wanted  or  not.  The  Cardinal  de 
Rohan  had  all  his  kitchen  utensils  of  solid 
silver,  which  must  have  given  as  much  satis- 


THE   DISCOMFORTS    OF   LUXURY.        117 

faction  to  his  cooks  as  did  Nero's  golden 
fishing-hooks  to  the  fish  he  caught  with  them. 
M.  Baudrillart  describes  the  feasts  of  Elaga- 
balus  as  if  their  only  fault  was  their  excess  ; 
but  the  impartial  reader,  scanning  each  unpal- 
atable detail,  comes  to  a  different  conclusion. 
Thrushes'  brains,  and  parrots'  heads,  peas 
mashed  with  grains  of  gold,  beans  fricasseed 
with  morsels  of  amber,  and  rice  mixed  with 
pearls  do  not  tempt  one's  fancy  as  either 
nourishing  or  appetizing  diet ;  while  the 
crowning  point  of  discomfort  was  reached 
when  revolving  roofs  threw  down  upon  the 
guests  such  vast  quantities  of  roses  that 
they  were  well-nigh  smothered.  Better  a 
dish  of  herbs,  indeed,  than  all  this  dubious 
splendor.  Nothing  less  enjoyable  could  have 
been  invented  in  the  interests  of  hospitality, 
save  only  that  mysterious  banquet  given  by 
Solomon  the  mighty,  where  all  the  beasts  of 
the  earth  and  all  the  demons  of  the  air  were 
summoned  by  his  resistless  talisman  to  do 
honor  to  the  terrified  and  miserable  ban- 
queters. 

"  Le    Superflu,    chose    tres-necessaire,"   to 
quote  Voltaire's  delightful  phrase,  is  a  diffi- 


118  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

cult  thing  to  handle  with  propriety  and  grace. 
Where  the  advantages  of  early  training  and 
inherited  habits  of  indulgence  are  lacking, 
men  who  endeavor  to  spend  a  great  deal  of 
money  show  a  pitiful  incapacity  for  the  task. 
They  spend  it,  to  be  sure,  but  only  in  aug- 
menting their  own  and  their  neighbors'  dis- 
comfort ;  and  even  this  they  do  in  a  blunder- 
ing, unimaginative  fashion,  almost  painful  to 
contemplate.  The  history  of  Law's  Bubble, 
with  its  long  train  of  fabulous  and  fleeting 
fortunes,  illustrates  the  helplessness  of  men  to 
cope  with  suddenly  acquired  wealth.  The 
Parisian  nabob  who  warmed  up  a  ragout  with 
burning  bank  notes,  that  he  might  boast  of 
how  much  it  cost  him,  was  sadly  stupid  for  a 
Frenchman ;  but  he  was  kinder  to  himself, 
after  all,  than  the  house-painter  who,  bewil- 
dered with  the  wealth  of  Fortunatus,  could 
think  of  nothing  better  to  do  with  it  than  to 
hire  ninety  supercilious  domestics  for  his  own 
misusage  and  oppression.  Since  the  days  of 
Darius,  who  required  thirty  attendants  to 
make  his  royal  bed,  there  probably  never  were 
people  more  hopelessly  in  one  another's  way 
than  that  little  army  of  ninety  servants  await- 


THE   DISCOMFORTS    OF   LUXURY.        119 

ing  orders  from  an  artisan.  The  only  crea- 
ture capable  of  reveling  in  such  an  establish- 
ment was  the  author  of  "  Coningsby "  and 
"  Lothair,"  to  whom  long  rows  of  powdered 
footmen,  "  glowing  in  crimson  liveries,"  were 
a  spectacle  as  exhilarating  as  is  a  troop  of 
Horse  Guards  to  persons  of  a  more  martial 
cast  of  mind.  Readers  of  "•  Lothair  "  will  re- 
member the  home-coming  of  that  young  gen- 
tleman to  Muriel  Towers,  where  the  house 
steward,  and  the  chief  butler,  and  the  head 
gardener,  and  the  lord  of  the  kitchen,  and  the 
head  forester,  and  the  grooms  of  the  stud  and 
of  the  chambers  stand  in  modest  welcome  be- 
hind the  distinguished  housekeeper,  "  who 
curtsied  like  the  old  court ;  "  while  the  under- 
lings await  at  a  more  "  respectful  distance  " 
the  arrival  of  their  youthful  master,  whose 
sterling  insignificance  must  have  been  pain- 
fully enhanced  by  all  this  solemn  anticipation, 
"  Even  the  mountains  fear  a  rich  man,"  says 
that  ominous  Turkish  proverb  which  breathes 
the  corruption  of  a  nation  ;  but  it  would  have 
been  a  chicken-hearted  molehill  that  trembled 
before  such  a  homunculus  as  Lothair. 

The    finer    adaptability    of    women    makes 


120  IN   THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

them  a  little  less  uncomfortable  amid  such 
oppressive  surroundings,  and  their  tamer 
natures  revolt  from  ridiculous  excess.  They 
listen,  indeed,  with  favor  to  the  counsel  of 
Polonius,  and  their  habit  is  occasionally 
costlier  than  their  purses  can  buy ;  witness 
that  famous  milliner's  bill  for  fifteen  thou- 
sand pounds,  which  was  disputed  in  the 
French  courts  during  the  gilded  reign  of 
Napoleon  III.  But,  as  a  rule,  the  punish- 
ment of  their  extravagances  falls  on  them- 
selves or  on  their  husbands.  They  do  not, 
as  is  the  fashion  with  men,  make  their  be- 
longings a  burden  to  their  friends.  It  is 
seldom  the  mistress  of  a  curio-laden  house 
who  insists  with  tireless  perseverance  on 
your  looking  at  everything  she  owns  ;  though 
it  was  a  woman,  and  a  provincial  actress 
at  that,  raised  by  two  brilliant  marriages 
to  the  pinnacle  of  fame  and  fortune,  who 
came  to  Abbotsford  accompanied  by  a  whole 
retinue  of  servants  and  several  private  physi- 
cians, to  the  mingled  amusement  and  de- 
spair of  Sir  Walter.  And  it  was  a  flower 
girl  of  Paris  who  spent  her  suddenly  acquired 
wealth  in  the  most  sumptuous  entertainments 


THE   DISCOlfFORTS    OF  LUXURY.         121 

ever  known  even  to  that  city  of  costly  caprice. 
But  for  stupid  and  meaningless  luxury  we 
must  look,  after  all,  to  men :  to  Caligula, 
whose  horse  wore  a  collar  of  pearls,  and  drank 
out  of  an  ivory  trough ;  to  Conde,  who  spent 
three  thousand  crowns  for  jonquils  to  deck 
his  palace  at  Chantilly ;  to  the  Duke  of 
Albuquerque,  who  had  forty  silver  ladders 
among  his  utterly  undesirable  possessions. 
Even  in  the  matter  of  dress  and  fashion, 
they  have  exceeded  the  folly  of  women. 
It  is  against  the  gallants  of  Spain,  and  not 
against  their  wives,  that  the  good  old  gossip 
James  Howell  inveighs  with  caustic  humor. 
The  Spaniard,  it  would  seem,  "  tho'  perhaps 
he  had  never  a  shirt  to  his  back,  yet  must  he 
have  a  toting  huge  swelling  ruff  around  his 
neck,"  for  the  starching  of  which  exquisitely 
uncomfortable  article  he  paid  the  then  enor- 
mous sum  of  twenty  shillings.  It  was  found 
necessary  to  issue  a  royal  edict  against  these 
preposterous  decorations,  which  grew  larger 
and  stiffer  every  year,  even  children  of  tender 
age  wearing  their  miniature  instruments  of 
torture.  "  Poverty  is  a  most  odious  calling," 
sighs  Burton  with  melancholy  candor  ;  but  it 


122  7AT    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

is  not  without  some  small  compensations  of 
its  own.  To  realize  them,  we  might  compare 
one  of  Murillo's  dirty,  smiling,  half-naked 
beggar  boys  with  an  Infanta  by  Velasquez,  or 
with  Moreelzee's  charming  and  unhappy  little 
Princess,  who,  in  spreading  ruff  and  stiff  pearl- 
trimmed  stomacher,  gazes  at  us  with  childish 
dignity  from  the  wall  of  Amsterdam's  mu- 
seum. Or  we  might  remember  the  pretty 
story  of  Meyerbeer's  little  daughter,  who, 
after  watching  for  a  long  time  the  gambols  of 
some  ragged  children  in  the  street,  turned 
sadly  from  the  window,  and  said,  with  pathetic 
resignation,  "  It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  have 
genteel  parents." 


LECTURES. 

"  FEW  of  us,"  says  Mr.  Walter  Bagehot  in 
one  of  his  most  cynical  moods,  "  can  bear  the 
theory  of  our  amusements.  It  is  essential  to 
the  pride  of  man  to  believe  that  he  is  indus- 
trious." 

Now,  is  it  industry  or  a  love  of  sport  which 
makes  us  sit  in  long  and  solemn  rows  in  an 
oppressively  hot  room,  blinking  at  glaring 
lights,  breathing  a  vitiated  air,  wriggling  on 
straight  and  narrow  chairs,  and  listening,  as 
well  as  heat  and  fatigue  and  discomfort  will 
permit,  to  a  lecture  which  might  just  as  well 
have  been  read  peacefully  by  our  own  firesides  ? 
Do  we  do  this  thing  for  amusement,  or  for  in- 
tellectual gain  ?  Outside,  the  winter  sun  is 
setting  clearly  in  a  blue-green  sky.  People 
are  chatting  gayly  in  the  streets.  Friends  are 
drinking  cups  of  fragrant  tea  in  pleasant  lamp- 
lit  rooms.  There  are  concerts,  perhaps,  or 
matinees,  where  the  deft  comedian  provokes 
continuous  laughter.  No  ;  it  is  not  amusement 


124  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

that  we  seek  in  the  lecture-hall.  Too  many 
really  amusing  things  may  be  done  on  a  winter 
afternoon.  Too  many  possible  pleasures  lie 
in  wait  for  every  spare  half-hour.  We  can 
harbor  no  delusions  on  that  score. 

Is  it  industry,  then,  that  packs  us  side  by  side 
in  serried  Amazonian  ranks,  broken  here  and 
there  by  a  stray  and  downcast  man  ?  But  on 
the  library  shelves  stand  thick  as  autumn 
leaves  the  unread  books.  Hidden  away  in 
obscure  corners  are  the  ripe  old  authors  whom 
we  know  by  name  alone.  The  mist  of  an  un- 
spoken tongue  veils  from  us  the  splendid 
treasures  of  antiquity,  and  we  comfort  our- 
selves with  glib  commonplaces  about  "  the 
sympathetic  study  of  translations."  No  ;  it 
can  hardly  be  the  keen  desire  of  culture  which 
makes  us  patient  listeners  to  endless  lectures. 
Culture  is  not  so  easy  of  access.  It  is  not  a 
thing  passed  lightly  from  hand  to  hand.  It  is 
the  reward  of  an  intelligent  quest,  of  delicate 
intuitions,  of  a  broad  and  generous  sympathy 
with  all  that  is  best  in  the  world.  It  has  been 
nobly  defined  by  Mr.  Symonds  as  "  the  raising 
of  the  intellectual  faculties  to  their  highest  po- 
tency by  means  of  conscious  training."  "\Yo 


LECTURES.  125 

cannot  gain  this  fine  mastery  over  ourselves  by 
absorbing — or  forgetting  —  a  mass  of  details 
upon  disconnected  subjects,  —  "a  thousand 
particulars,"  says  Addison,  "  which  I  would 
not  have  my  mind  burdened  with  for  a 
Vatican."  If  we  will  sit  down  and  seri- 
ously try  to  reckon  up  our  winnings  in 
years  of  lecture-going,  we  may  yet  find  our- 
selves reluctant  converts  to  Mr.  Bagehot's 
cruel  conclusions.  It  is  the  old,  old  search  for 
a  royal  road  to  learning.  It  is  the  old,  old 
effort  at  a  compromise  which  cheats  us  out 
of  both  pleasure  and  profit.  It  is  the  old,  old 
determination  to  seek  some  short  cut  to 
acquirements,  which,  like  "  conversing  with 
ingenious  men,"  may  save  us,  says  Bishop 
Berkeley,  from  "  the  drudgery  of  reading  and 
thinking." 

The  necessity  of  knowing  a  little  about  a 
great  many  things  is  the  most  grievous  burden 
of  our  day.  It  deprives  us  of  leisure  on  the 
one  hand,  and  of  scholarship  on  the  other. 
At  times  we  envy  the  happy  Hermit  of  Prague, 
who  never  saw  pen  or  ink  ;  at  times  we  think 
somewhat  wistfully  of  the  sedate  and  dignified 
methods  of  the  past,  when  students,  to  use  Sir 


126  /.V    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

Walter  Scott's  illustration,  paid  their  tickets 
at  the  door,  instead  of  scrambling  over  the 
walls  to  distinction.  It  shows  a  good  deal  of 
agility  and  self-reliance  to  scale  the  walls ;  and 
such  athletic  interlopers,  albeit  a  trifle  dis- 
ordered in  appearance,  are  apt  to  boast  of 
their  unaided  prowess  :  how  with  "  little  Latin 
and  less  Greek "  they  have  become  —  not 
Shakespeares  indeed,  nor  even  Scotts  —  but 
prominent,  very  prominent  citizens  indeed. 
The  notion  is  gradually  gaining  ground  that 
common-school  education  is  as  good  as  col- 
lege education ;  that  extension  lectures  and 
summer  classes  are  acceptable  substitutes 
for  continuous  study  and  mental  discipline ; 
that  reading  translations  of  the  classics  is 
better,  because  easier,  than  reading  the 
classics  themselves ;  and  that  attending  a 
"  Congress  "  of  specialists  gives  us,  in  some 
mysterious  fashion,  a  very  respectable  know- 
ledge of  their  specialties.  It  is  after  this  man- 
ner that  we  enjoy,  in  all  its  varied  aspects,  that 
energetic  idleness  which  Mr.  Bagehot  recom- 
mends as  a  deliberate  sedative  for  our  restless 
self-esteem. 

Yet  the  sacrifice  of  time  alone  is  worth  some 


LECTURES.  127 

sorrowful  consideration.  We  laugh  at  the 
droning  pedants  of  the  old  German  universities 
who,  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centu- 
ries, had  well-nigh  drowned  the  world  with 
words.  The  Tiibingen  chancellor,  Penziger, 
gave,  it  is  said,  four  hundred  and  fifty-nine 
lectures  on  the  prophet  Jeremiah,  and  over 
fifteen  hundred  lectures  on  Isaiah  ;  while  the 
Viennese  theologian,  Hazelbach,  lectured  for 
twenty-two  consecutive  years  on  the  first  chap- 
ter of  Isaiah,  and  was  cruelly  cut  off  by  death 
before  he  had  finished  with  his  theme.  But 
the  bright  side  of  this  picture  is  that  only  stu- 
dents —  and  theological  students  at  that  — 
attended  these  limitless  dissertations.  Theol- 
ogy was  then  a  battle-field,  and  the  heavy 
weapons  forged  for  the  combat  were  presumed 
to  be  as  deadly  as  they  were  cumbersome. 
During  all  those  twenty-two  years  in  which 
Herr  Hazelbach  held  forth  so  mercilessly,  Ger- 
man maidens  and  German  matrons  formed  no 
part  of  his  audience.  They  at  least  had  other 
and  better  things  to  do.  German  artisans  and 
German  tradesmen  troubled  themselves  little 
about  Isaiah.  German  ploughmen  went  about 
their  daily  toil  as  placidly  as  if  Herr  Hazelbach 


128  IX    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

had  been  born  a  mute.  The  sleepy  world  had 
not  then  awakened  to  its  duty  of  disseminating 
knowledge  broadcast  and  in  small  doses,  so 
that  our  education,  as  Dr.  Johnson  discontent- 
edly observed  of  the  education  of  the  Scotch, 
is  like  bread  in  a  besieged  town, — "  every 
man  gets  a  little,  but  no  man  gets  a  full  meal." 
What  we  lack  in  quantity,  however,  we  are 
pleased  to  make  up  in  variety.  We  range 
freely  over  a  mass  of  subjects  from  the  reli- 
gion of  the  Phoenicians  to  the  poets  of  Austra- 
lia, and  from  the  Song  of  Solomon  to  the 
latest  electrical  invention.  We  have  lectures 
in  the  morning  upon  Plato  and  Aristotle,  and 
in  the  afternoon  upon  Emerson  and  Arthur 
Hugh  Clough.  We  take  a  short  course  of 
German  metaphysics,  —  which  is  supposed  to 
be  easily  compressed  into  six  lectures, —  and 
follow  it  up  immediately  with  another  on 
French  art,  or  the  folk-lore  of  the  North 
American  Indians.  No  topic  is  too  vast  to  be 
handled  deftly,  and  finished  up  in  a  few  after- 
noons. A  fortnight  for  the  Renaissance,  a 
week  for  Greek  architecture,  ten  days  for 
Chaucer,  three  weeks  for  anthropology.  It  is 
amazing  how  far  we  can  go  in  a  winter,  when 


LECTURES.  129 

we  travel  at  this  rate  of  speed.  "  What 
under  the  sun  is  bringing  all  the  women  after 
Hegel  ?  "  asked  a  puzzled  librarian  not  very 
long  ago.  "  There  is  n't  one  of  his  books  left 
in  the  library,  and  twenty  women  come  in  a 
day  to  ask  for  him."  It  was  explained  to  this 
custodian  that  a  popular  lecturer  had  been 
dwelling  with  some  enthusiasm  upon  Hegel, 
and  that  the  sudden  demand  for  the  philoso- 
pher was  a  result  of  his  contagious  eloquence. 
It  seemed  for  the  nonce  like  a  revival  of  pan- 
theism ;  but  in  two  weeks  every  volume  was 
back  in  its  place,  and  the  gray  dust  of  neglect 
was  settling  down  as  of  yore  upon  each  hoary 
head.  The  women,  fickle  as  in  the  days  of 
the  troubadours,  had  wandered  far  from  Ger- 
man erudition,  and  were  by  that  time  wrest- 
ling with  the  Elizabethan  poets,  or  the 
constitutional  history  of  republics.  The  sun 
of  philosophy  had  set. 

One  rather  dismal  result  of  this  rapid  tran- 
sit is  the  amount  of  material  which  each 
lecture  is  required  to  hold,  and  which  each 
lecture-goer  is  expected  to  remember.  A  few 
centuries  of  Egyptian  history  or  of  Mediaeval 
song  are  packed  down  by  some  system  of 


130  AY    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

mental  hydraulic  pressure  into  a  single  hour's 
discourse ;  and,  when  they  escape,  they  seem 
vast  enough  to  fill  our  lives  for  a  week. 
"  When  Macaulay  talks,"  complained  Lady 
Ashlnirton  tartly,  "  I  am  not  only  overflowed 
with  learning,  but  I  stand  in  the  slops."  We 
have  much  the  same  uncomfortable  sensation 
at  an  afternoon  lecture,  when  the  tide  of  in- 
formation, of  dry,  formidable,  relentless  facts, 
rises  higher  and  higher,  and  our  spirits  sink 
lower  and  lower  with  every  fresh  develop- 
ment. "  The  need  of  limit,  the  feasibility  of 
performance,''  has  not  yet  dawned  upon  the 
new  educators  who  have  taken  the  world  in 
hand ;  and,  as  a  consequence,  we,  the  stu- 
dents, have  never  learned  to  survey  our  own 
intellectual  boundaries.  We  assume  in  the 
first  place  that  we  have  an  intelligent  interest 
in  literature,  science,  and  history,  art,  archi- 
tecture, and  archaeology  ;  and,  in  the  second, 
that  it  is  possible  for  us  to  learn  a  moderate 
amount  about  all  these  things  without  any  un- 
reasonable exertion.  This  double  delusion 
lures  us  feebly  on  until  we  have  listened  to  so 
much,  and  remembered  so  little,  that  we  arc  a 
good  deal  like  the  infant  Paul  Domliey  won- 


LECTURES.  131 

dering  in  pathetic  perplexity  whether  a  verb 
always  agreed  with  an  ancient  Briton,  or 
three  times  four  was  Taurus  a  bull. 

"  When  all  can  read,  and  books  are  plenti- 
ful, lectures  are  unnecessary,"  says  Dr.  John- 
son, who  hated  "  by-roads  in  education,"  and 
novel  devices  —  or  devices  which  were  novel  a 
hundred  and  thirty  years  ago  —  for  softening 
and  abridging  hard  study.  He  hated  also  to 
be  asked  the  kind  of  questions  which  we  are 
now  so  fond  of  answering  in  the  columns  of 
our  journals  and  magazines.  What  should  a 
child  learn  first  ?  How  should  a  boy  be 
taught  ?  What  course  of  study  would  he 
recommend  an  intelligent  youth  to  pursue? 
"  Let  him  take  a  course  of  chemistry,  or  a 
course  of  rope-dancing,  or  a  course  of  any- 
thing to  which  he  is  inclined,"  was  the  great 
scholar's  petulant  reply  to  one  of  these  re- 
peated inquiries ;  and,  though  it  sounds  ill-na- 
tured, we  have  some  human  sympathy  for 
the  pardonable  irritation  which  prompted  it. 
Dr.  Johnson,  I  am  well  aware,  is  not  a  popu- 
lar authority  to  quote  in  behalf  of  any  cause 
one  wishes  to  advance  ;  but  his  heterodoxy  in 
the  matter  of  lectures  is  supported  openly  by 


132  JX    THE    DOZY  HOURS. 

Charles  Lamb,  and  furtively  by  some  living 
men  of  letters,  who  strive,  though  with  no 
great  show  of  temerity,  to  stem  the  ever-in- 
creasing current  of  popular  instruction.  One 
eminent  scholar,  being  entreated  to  deliver  a 
course  of  lectures  on  a  somewhat  abstruse 
theme,  replied  that  if  people  really  desired 
information  on  that  subject,  and  if  they  could 
read,  he  begged  to  refer  them  to  two  books  he 
had  written  several  years  before.  By  perus- 
ing these  volumes,  which  were  easy  of  access, 
they  would  know  all  that  he  once  knew,  and  a 
great  deal  more  than  he  knew  at  the  present 
time,  as  he  had  unhappily  forgotten  much 
that  was  in  them.  It  would  be  simpler,  he 
deemed,  and  it  would  be  cheaper,  than  bring- 
ing him  across  the  ocean  to  repeat  the  same 
matter  in  lectures. 

As  for  Lamb,  we  have  not  only  his  frankly 
stated  opinion,  but  —  what  is  much  more 
diverting  —  we  have  also  the  unconscious  con- 
fession of  a  purely  human  weakness  with 
which  it  is  pleasant  to  sympathize.  Like  all 
the  rest  of  us,  this  charming  and  fallible 

O 

genius  found  that  heroic  efforts  in  the  future 
cost  less  than  very  moderate  exertions  in  the 


LECTURES.  133 

present.  He  was  warmly  attached  to  Cole- 
ridge, and  he  held  him  in  sincere  veneration. 
When  the  poet  came  to  London  in  1816,  we 
find  Lamb  writing  to  Wordsworth  very  en- 
thusiastically, and  yet  with  a  vague  under- 
current of  apprehension  :  — 

"  Coleridge  is  absent  but  four  miles,  and 
the  neighborhood  of  such  a  man  is  as  exciting 
as  the  presence  of  fifty  ordinary  persons. 
'  T  is  enough  to  be  within  the  whiff  and  wind 
of  his  genius  for  us  not  to  possess  our  souls  in 
quiet.  If  I  lived  with  him,  or  with  the  author 
of  '  The  Excursion,'  I  should  in  a  very  little 
time  lose  my  own  identity,  and  be  dragged 
along  in  the  currents  of  other  people's 
thoughts,  hampered  in  a  net." 

This  is  well  enough  by  way  of  anticipation  ; 
but  later  on,  when  Coleridge  is  a  fixed  star  in 
the  London  skies,  and  is  preparing  to  give  his 
lectures  on  Shakespeare  and  English  poetry, 
Lamb's  kind  heart  warms  to  his  perpetually 
impecunious  friend.  He  writes  now  to  Payne 
Collier,  with  little  enthusiasm,  but  with  great 
earnestness,  bespeaking  his  interest  and  assist- 
ance. He  reminds  Collier  of  his  friendship 
and  admiration  for  Coleridge,  and  bids  him  re- 


134  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

member  that  lie  and  all  his  family  attended 
the  poet's  lectures  five  years  before.  He  tells 
him  alluringly  that  this  is  a  brand-new  course, 
with  nothing  metaphysical  about  it,  and  adds : 
"  There  are  particular  reasons  just  now,  and 
have  been  for  the  last  twenty  years,  why  he 
[Coleridge]  should  succeed.  He  will  do  so 
with  a  little  encouragement." 

Doubtless  ;  but  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  the 
next  time  the  subject  is  mentioned  is  in  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  written  more  than  two 
months  later.  The  lectures  are  now  in  prog- 
ress ;  very  successful,  we  hear ;  but  —  Lamb 
has  been  to  none  of  them.  He  intends  to  go 
soon,  of  course,  —  so  do  we  always ;  but,  in 
the  mean  while,  he  is  treating  resolution  with  a 
good  deal  of  zest,  and  making  the  best  plea  he 
can  for  his  defalcation.  With  desperate 
candor  he  writes  :  — 

"  I  mean  to  hear  some  of  the  course,  but 
lectures  are  not  much  to  my  taste,  whatever 
the  lecturer  may  be.  If  read,  they  are  dismal 
flat,  and  you  can't  think  why  you  are  brought 
together  to  hear  a  man  read  his  works,  which 
you-  could  read  so  much  better  at  leisure  your- 
self. If  delivered  extempore,  I  am  always  in 


LECTURES.  135 

pain  lest  the  gift  of  utterance  should  suddenly 
fail  the  orator  in  the  middle,  as  it  did  me  at 
the  dinner  given  in  honor  of  me  at  the  Lon- 
don Tavern.  '  Gentlemen,'  said  I,  and  there  I 
stopped ;  the  rest  my  feelings  were  under  the 
necessity  of  supplying." 

We  can  judge  pretty  well  from  this  letter 
just  how  many  of  those  lectures  on  Shake- 
speare Lamb  was  likely  to  hear ;  and  all 
doubts  are  set  at  rest  when  we  find  Coleridge, 
the  following  winter,  endeavoring  to  lure  his  re- 
luctant friend  to  another  course  by  the  presen- 
tation of  a  complimentary  ticket.  Even  this 
device  fails  of  its  wonted  success.  Lamb  is 
eloquent  in  thanks,  and  lame  in  excuses.  He 
has  been  in  an  "incessant  hurry.  '  He  was 
unable  to  go  on  the  evening  he  was  expected 
because  it  was  the  night  of  Kenney's  new 
comedy,  "which  has  utterly  failed,"  —  this  is 
mentioned  as  soothing  to  Coleridge's  wounded 
feelings.  He  has  mistaken  his  dates,  and  sup- 
posed there  would  be  no  lectures  in  Christmas 
week.  He  is  as  eager  to  vindicate  himself  as 
Miss  Edgeworth's  Rosamond,  and  he  is  as 
sanguine  as  ever  about  the  future.  "  I  trust," 
he  writes,  "  to  hear  many  a  course  yet ;  "  and 


136  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

with  this  splendid  resolution,  which  is  made 
without  a  pang,  he  wanders  brightly  off  to  a 
more  engaging  topic. 

It  is  a  charming  little  bit  of  comedy,  and 
has,  withal,  such  a  distinctly  modern  touch, 
that  we  might  fancy  it  enacted  in  this  year 
of  grace  eighteen  hundred  and  ninety-four  by 
any  of  our  weak  and  erring  friends. 


REVIEWERS  AND  REVIEWED. 

IN  these  days  of  grace  when  all  manner  of 
evil-doers  have  their  apologists ;  when  we  are 
bidden  to  admire  the  artistic  spirit  of  Nero 
and  the  warm-hearted  integrity  of  Henry  the 
Eighth;  when  a  "cult  for  Domitian  "  and  a 
taste  for  Nihilists  contend  with  each  other  in 
our  estimation ;  it  may  not  be  ill-timed  nor 
unduly  venturesome  to  offer  a  few  modest  ar- 
guments in  behalf  of  those  Pariahs  of  modern 
literature,  the  anonymous  reviewers  of  the 
press.  They  have  been  harshly  abused  for  so 
many  years.  They  have  been  targets  for  the 
wrath  of  authors,  the  scorn  of  satirists,  the 
biting  comments  of  injured  genius.  And  now, 
when  milder  manners  and  gentler  modes  of 
speech  are  replacing  the  vigorous  Billingsgate 
of  our  ancestors  ;  when  theologians  and  politi- 
cians make  war  upon  one  another  with  some 
show  of  charity  and  discretion,  the  reviewer 
alone  is  excluded  from  this  semblance  of  good- 
will, the  reviewer  alone  —  a  thing  apart  from 


138  IN    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

brotherhood  —  is  pelted  as  openly  as  ever. 
The  stones  that  are  cast  at  him  are  so  big  and 
so  hard  that  if  he  still  lives,  and,  in  a  mild 
way,  even  flourishes,  it  must  be  because  of  his 
own  irritating*  obtusiveness,  because  of  his  un- 
pardonable reluctance  to  come  forward  decently 
and  be  killed. 

Now,  when  I  read  the  list  of  his  misdeeds, 
as  they  are  set  forth  categorically  by  irate 
novelists  and  poets,  when  I  hear  of  his  "  fero- 
city, incompetence  and  dishonesty,"  I  am  filled 
with  heroic  indignation  and  with  craven  fear. 
But  when  I  turn  from  these  scathing  com- 
ments to  a  few  columns  of  book  notices,  and 
see  for  myself  the  amiable  effort  that  is  made 
in  them  to  say  something  reasonably  pleasant 
about  every  volume,  I  begin  to  think  that  Mr. 
Lang  is  right  when  he  complams  that  the  ordi- 
nary anonymous  reviewer  is,  as  the  Scotch  lassie 
said  of  a  modest  lover,  "  senselessly  ceevil," 
good-natured  and  forbearing  t )  a  fault.  If  he 
sins,  it  is  through  indifference,  and  not  through 
brutality.  lie  is  more  anxious  to  spare  him- 
self than  to  attack  his  author.  .He  has  that 
provoking  charity  which  is  based  upon  uncon- 
cern, and  lie  looks  upon  a  book  witlr  a  gentle 


REVIEWERS    AXD    REVIEWED.  139 

and  weary  tolerance,  fatal  alike  to  animosity 
and  enthusiasm.  To  understand  the  annoy- 
ance provoked  by  this  mental  attitude,  we 
must  remember  that  the  work  which  is  thus 
carelessly  handled  is,  in  its  writer's  eyes,  a 
thing-  sacred  and  apart ;  with  faults  perhaps, — 
no  great  book  being1  wholly  free  from  them, — 
but  illustrating  some  particular  attitude 
towards  life,  which  places  it  beyond  the  pale 
of  common,  critical  jurisprudence.  Even  the 
novelist  of  to-day  sincerely  believes  that  his 
point  of  view,  his  conception  of  his  own  art, 
and  the  lesson  he  desires  to  enforce  are  matters 
of  vital  interest  to  the  public  ;  and  that  it  is 
crass  ignorance  on  the  reviewer's  part  to  ignore 
these  considerations,  and  to  class  his  master- 
piece with  the  companion  stories  of  less  self- 
conscious  men.  What  is  the  use  of  superbly 
discarding  all  models,  and  of  thanking  Heaven 
daily  one  does  not  resemble  Fielding  and  Scott, 
and  Thackeray,  if  one  cannot  escape  after  all 
from  the  standards  which  these  great  men 
erected  ? 

It  is  urged  also  against  newspaper  critics 
that  they  read  only  a  small  portion  of  the 
books  which  they  pretend  to  criticise.  This, 


140  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

I  believe,  is  true,  and  it  accounts  for  the  good- 
humor  and  charity  they  display.  If  they  read 
the  whole,  we  should  have  a  band  of  misan- 
thropes who  would  spare  neither  age  nor  sex, 
and  who  would  gain  no  clearer  knowledge  of 
their  subjects  through  this  fearful  sacrifice  of 
time  and  temper.  "  To  know  the  vintage  and 
quality  of  a  wine,"  says  Mr.  Oscar  Wilde, 
"  one  need  not  drink  the  whole  cask.  One 
tastes  it,  and  that  is  quite  enough."  More 
than  enough  for  the  reviewer  very  often,  but 
too  little  to  satisfy  the  author,  who  regards  his 
work  as  Dick  Swiveller  regarded  beer,  as 
something  not  to  be  adequately  recognized  in 
a  sip.  There  is  a  secret  and  wholesome  con- 
viction in  the  heart  of  every  man  or  woman 
who  has  written  a  book  that  it  should  be  no 
easy  matter  for  an  intelligent  reader  to  lay 
down  that  book  unfinished.  There  is  a  par- 
donable impression  among  reviewers  that  half 
an  hour  in  its  company  is  sufficient.  This  is 
as  much  perhaps  as  they  can  afford  to  give  it, 
and  to  write  a  brief,  intelligent,  appreciative 
notice  of  a  partly  read  volume  is  not  altoge- 
ther the  easy  task  it  seems.  That  it  is  con- 
stantly done,  proves  the  reviewer  to  be  a  man 


REVIEWERS  AND   REVIEWED.  141 

skilled  in  his  petty  craft ;  but  we  are  merely 
paving  the  way  to  disappointment  if  we  ex- 
pect subtle  analysis,  or  fervent  eulogy,  or  even 
very  discriminating  criticism  from  his  pen.  He 
is  not  a  Sainte-Beuve  in  the  first  place,  and 
he  has  not  a  week  of  leisure  in  the  second.  We 
might  console  ourselves  with  the  reflection 
that  if  he  were  a  great  and  scholarly  critic 
instead  of  an  insignificant  fellow-workman,  our 
little  books  would  never  meet  his  eye. 

Another  complaint  lodged  periodically  by 
discontents  is  that  the  author  gains  no  real 
light  from  the  comments  passed  upon  his  work, 
which  are  irritating  and  annoying  without 
being  in  the  smallest  degree  helpful.  This  is 
the  siibstaiice  of  those  sad  grumblings  which 
we  heard  some  years  ago  from  Mr.  Lewis 
Morris  ;  and  this  is  the  argument  offered  by 
Mr.  llowells,  who  appears  to  think  that  Canon 
Farrar  dealt  a  death-blow  to  reviewers  in  the 
simple  statement  that  he  never  profited  by 
their  reviews.  But  at  whose  door  lay  the 
blame  ?  It  does  not  follow  that,  because  a 
lesson  is  tmlearned,  it  has  never  been  taught. 
The  Bourbons,  it  is  said,  gained  nothing  from 
some  of  the  sharpest  admonitions  ever  given 


142  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

by  history.  It  is  worth  while  to  consider,  in 
this  regard,  an  extract  from  the  Journal  of 
Sir  "Walter  Scott  in  which  he  mentions  an 
anonymous  letter  sent  him  from  Italy,  and  full 
of  acute,  acrid  criticisms  on  the  "  Life  of  Bona- 
parte." "  The  tone  is  decidedly  hostile,"  says 
Sir  Walter  calmly,  "  but  that  shall  not  pre- 
vent my  making  use  of  all  his  corrections, 
where  just."  It  is  a  hard  matter  perhaps  for 
smaller  men  to  preserve  this  admirable  tran- 
quillity under  assault ;  to  say  with  Epictetus, 
"  He  little  knew  of  my  other  shortcomings  or 
he  would  not  have  mentioned  these  alone." 
Yet  after  all,  it  is  an  advantage  to  be  told 
plainly  what  we  need  to  know  and  cannot 
see  for  ourselves.  I  am  sure  that  the  most 
valuable  lesson  in  literary  perspective  I  ever 
received  came  from  an  anonymous  reviewer, 
who  reminded  me  curtly  that  "  Mr.  Saltus  and 
Leopardi  are  not  twins  of  the  intellect." 
"When  I  first  saw  that  sentence  I  felt  a  throb 
of  indignation  that  any  one  should  believe,  or 
affect  to  believe,  that  I  ever  for  a  moment  sup- 
posed Mr.  Saltus  and  Leopardi  were  twins  of 
the  intellect.  Afterwards,  when  in  calmer 
mood  I  re-read  the  essay  criticised,  I  was 


REVIEWERS   AND   REVIEWED.  143 

forced  to  acknowledge  that,  if  such  were  not  my 
conviction,  I  had,  to  say  the  least,  been  unfor 
innate  in  my  manner  of  putting  things.  I  had 
used  the  two  names  indiscriminately  and  as  if  I 
thought  one  man  every  whit  as  worthy  of  illus- 
trating my  text  as  the  other.  Such  moments 
ought  to  be  salutary,  they  are  so  eminently 
cheerless.  A  disagreeable  lesson,  disagree- 
ably imparted,  is  apt  to  be  taken  to  heart  with 
very  beneficial  results.  If  it  is  wasted,  the 
fault  does  not  lie  with  the  surly  truth-teller, 
whose  thankless  task  has  been  performed  with 
most  ungracious  efficacy.  "  Truth,"  says 
Saville,  "•  has  become  such  a  ruining  virtue, 
that  mankind  seems  to  be  agreed  to  commend 
and  avoid  it." 

As  for  the  real  and  exasperating  fault  of 
much  modern  writing,  its  flippant  and  irrele- 
vant cleverness,  the  critic  and  the  reviewer 
stand  equally  guilty  of  the  charge.  Mr.  Gold- 
win  Smith  observes  that  the  province  of  criti- 
cism appears  to  be  now  limited  to  the  saying  of 
fine  things  ;  and  there  are  moments  when  we 
feel  that  this  unkind  and  forcible  statement  is 
very  nearly  true.  The  fatal  and  irresistible 
impulse  to  emit  sparks  — -  like  the  cat  in  the 


144  JN    THE    DOZY    HOURS. 

fairy  story — lures  a  man  away  from  his  sub- 
ject, and  sends  him  dancing  over  pages  in  a 
glittering  fashion  that  is  as  useless  as  it  is 
pretty.  It  is  amazing  how  brightly  he  shines, 
but  we  see  nothing  by  his  light.  "  He  uses 
his  topic,"  says  Mr.  Saintsbury,  "  as  a  spring- 
board or  platform  on  and  from  which  to  dis- 
play his  natural  grace  and  agility,  his  urbane 
learning,  his  faculty  of  pleasant  wit."  We 
read,  and  laugh,  and  are  entertained,  and  sel- 
dom pause  to  ask  ourselves  exactly  what  it 
was  which  the  writer  started  out  to  accom- 
plish. 

Now  the  finest  characteristic  of  all  really 
good  criticism  is  its  power  of  self -repression. 
It  is  work  within  barriers,  work  which  drives 
straight  to  its  goal,  and  does  not  permit  itself 
the  luxury  of  meandering  on  either  side  of  the 
way.  In  this  respect  at  least,  it  is  possible 
for  the  most  modest  of  anonymous  reviewers 
to  follow  the  example  of  the  first  of  critics, 
Sainte-Beuve,  who  nevrer  allowed  himself  to 
be  lured  away  from  the  subject  in  hand,  and 
never  sacrificed  exactness  and  perspicuity  to 
effect.  If  we  compare  his  essay  on  the  his- 
torian Gibbon  with  one  on  the  same  subject 


REVIEWERS    AND    REVIEWED.  145 

by  Mr.  Walter  Bagehot,  we  will  better  under- 
stand this  admirable  quality  of  restraint.  Mr. 
Bagehot's  paper  is  delightful  from  beginning 
to  end ;  keen,  sympathetic,  humorous,  and 
sparkling  all  over  with  little  brilliant  asides 
about  Peel's  Act,  and  the  South  Sea  Com- 
pany, and  grave  powdered  footmen,  and  Louis 
XIV.,  "carefully  amusing  himself  with  dreary 
trifles."  Underneath  its  whimsical  exaggera- 

OO 

tions  we  recognize  clearly  the  truthful1  outlines 
and  general  fidelity  of  the  sketch.  But  Sainte- 
Beuve  indulges  in  none  of  these  witty  and 
wandering  fancies.  He  is  keenly  alive  to  the 
proper  limitations  of  his  subject ;  he  has  but  a 
single  piirpose  in  mind,  that  of  helping  you  to 
accurately  understand  the  character  and  the 
life's  work  of  the  great  historian  whom  he  is 
reviewing  ;  and,  while  his  humor  plays  lam- 
bently  on  every  page,  he  never  makes  any 
conscious  effort  to  be  diverting.  Nothing  can 
be  more  sprightly  than  Mr.  Bagehot's  account 
of  Gibbon's  early  conversion  to  the  Church  of 
Rome,  and  of  the  horror  and  alarm  he  awoke 
thereby  at  the  manor-house  of  Buriton,  where 
"  it  would  probably  have  occasioned  less  seu< 
sation  if  '  dear  Edward '  had  announced  his 


146  JN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

intention  of  becoming  a  monkey."  Nothing 
can  be  more  dexterous  than  Mr.  Bagehot's 
analysis  of  the  cautions  skepticism  which  re- 
placed the  brief  religious  fervor  of  youth. 
But  when  we  turn  back  to  Sainte-Beuve,  we 
see  this  little  sentence  driven  like  an  arrow- 
point  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 
"  While  he  (Gibbon)  prided  himself  on  being 
wholly  impartial  and  indifferent  where  creeds 
were  concerned,  he  cherished,  without  avow- 
ing it,  a  secret  and  cold  spite  against  religious 
thought,  as  if  it  were  an  adversary  which  had 
struck  him  one  day  when  unarmed,  and  had 
wounded  him."  A  secret  and  cold  spite. 
Were  ever  five  short  words  more  luminously 
and  dispassionately  significant  ? 

A  sense  of  proportion  intrudes  itself  so 
seldom  into  the  popular  criticism  of  to-day, 
that  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  censure  the 
reviewer  for  not  comprehending  differences 
ni  decree.  How  should  he,  when  the  whole 

O 

tone  of  modern  sentiment  is  subversive  of 
order  and  distinction ;  when  the  generally 
accepted  opinion  appears  to  be  that  we  are 
doino-  everything  better  than  it  was  ever  done 

£>  */  ~ 

before,  and  have  nothing  to  learn  from  any- 


REVIEWERS   AND    REVIEWED.  147 

body  ?  This  is  a  pleasant  opinion  to  entertain, 
but  it  is  apt  to  be  a  little  misleading.  The 
old  gods  are  not  so  readily  dislodged,  and 
their  festal  board  is  not  a  round  table  at 
which  all  guests  hold  equal  rank.  If  you 
thrust  Balzac  or  Tolstoi  by  the  side  of  Shake- 
speare, the  great  poet,  it  has  been  well  said, 
will,  in  his  infinite  courtesy,  move  higher  and 
make  room.  But  you  cannot  bid  them  change 
seats  at  your  discretion.  Parnassus  is  not  the 
exclusive  pasture  ground  of  the  Frenchman  or 
of  the  Muscovite.  "  Homer  often  nods,  but, 
in  '  Taras  Bulba,'  Gogol  never  nods,"  I  read 
not  long  ago  in  a  review.  The  inference  is 
plain,  and  quite  in  harmony  with  much  that 
we  hear  every  day ;  but  how  many  times 
already  has  Homer  been  outstripped  by  long 
forgotten  competitors !  It  is  not  indeed  the 
nameless  critic  of  the  newspapers  who  gives 
utterance  to  these  startling  statements.  They 
are  signed  and  countersigned  in  magazines, 
and  occasionally  republished  in  fat  volumes 
for  the  comfort  and  enlightenment  of  poster- 
ity. The  real  curiosities  of  criticism  have 
ever  emanated  from  men  bearing  the  symbol 
of  authority.  It  was  no  anonymous  reviewer 


148  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

who  called  Dante  a  "  Methodist  parson  in 
Bedlam,"  or  who  said  that  Wordsworth's 
poetry  would  "  never  do,"  or  who  spoke  of 
the  "  caricaturist,  Thackeray."  It  is  no 
anonymous  reviewer  now  who  bids  us  exult 
and  be  glad  over  the  "literary  emancipation 
of  the  West,"  as  though  that  large  and  flour- 
ishing portion  of  the  United  States  had  hith- 
erto been  held  in  lettered  bondage. 

In  fact,  as  one's  experience  in  these  matters 
increases  day  by  day,  one  is  fain  to  acknow- 
ledge that  the  work  of  the  unknown  or  little 
known  professional  critic,  faulty  though  it  be, 
has  certain  modest  advantages  over  the  simi- 
lar work  of  MX  critics,  the  poets  and  novelists 
when  they  take  to  the  business  of  reviewing. 
There  are  several  very  successful  story-writers 
who  are  just  now  handling  criticism  after  a 
fashion  which  recalls  that  delightful  scene  in 
"  The  Monks  of  Thelema,"  where  an  effort  to 
make  the  village  maidens  vote  a  golden  apple 
to  the  prettiest  of  their  number  is  frustrated 
by  the  unforeseen  contingency  of  each  girl 
voting  for  herself.  In  the  same  artless  spirit, 
the  novelist  turned  critic  confines  his  good 
will  so  exclusivelv  to  his  own  work,  or  at  best 


REVIEWERS   AND    REVIEWED.  149 

to  that  school  of  fiction  which  his  own  work 
represents,  that,  while  we  cannot  sufficiently 
admire  his  methods,  we  do  not  feel  greatly 
stimulated  by  their  results.  As  for  the  poet 
umpire,  he  is  apt  to  bring  an  uncomfortable 
degree  of  excitability  to  bear  upon  his  task. 
It  is  readily  granted  that  Mr.  Swinburne 
manifests  at  times  an  exquisite  critical  dis- 
cernment, and  a  broad  sympathy  for  much 
that  is  truly  good  ;  but  when  less  gifted  souls 
behold  him  foaming  in  Berserker  wrath  over 
insignificant  trifles,  they  are  wont  to  ask  them- 
selves what  in  the  world  is  the  matter.  We 
can  forgive  him,  or  at  least  we  can  strive  to 
forgive  him,  for  reviling  Byron,  snubbing 
George  Eliot,  underrating  George  Sand, 
ignoring  Jane  Austen,  calling  poor  Steele  a 
"  sentimental  debauchee,"  and  asserting  that 
the  only  two  women  worthy  to  stand  by  the 
side  of  Charlotte  Bronte,"  "the  fiery-hearted 
vestal  of  Haworth  "  —  though  why  "  vestal," 
only  Mr.  Swinburne  knows  —  are  her  sister 
Emily  and  Mrs.  Browning.  But  when  he 
has  been  permitted  to  do  all  this  and  a  great 
deal  more,  why  should  he  fall  into  a  passion, 
and  use  the  strongest  of  strong  language, 


150  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

because  there  are  details  in  which  everybody 
does  not  chance  to  agree  with  him  ?  In  so 
wide  a  world  there  must  of  necessity  be  many 
minds,  and  the  opinions  of  a  poet  are  not 
always  beacon  fires  to  light  us  through  the 
gloom.  Even  the  musician  has  been  for 
some  time  prepared  to  step  into  the  critical 
arena,  and  Mr.  E.  S.  Dallos,  in  "  The  Gay 
Science,"  quotes  for  us  a  characteristic  extract 
from  Wagner,  which  probably  means  some- 
thing, though  only  a  very  subtle  intellect 
could  venture  to  say  what. 

"  If  we  now  consider  the  activity  of  the 
poet  more  closely,  we  perceive  that  the  real- 
ization of  his  intention  consists  solely  in  ren- 
dering possible  the  representation  of  the 
strengthened  actions  of  his  poetized  forms 
through  an  exposition  of  their  motives  to  the 
feelings,  as  well  as  the  motives  themselves. 
Also  by  an  expression  that  in  so  far  engrosses 
his  activity,  as  the  invention  and  production 
of  this  expression  in  truth  first  render  the 
introduction  of  such  motives  and  actions  pos- 
sible." 

After  this  splendid  example  of  style  and 
lucidity,  it  may  be  that  even  the  ordinary, 


REVIEWERS   AND   REVIEWED.  151 

every-day,  unostentatious  reviewer  whom  we 
so  liberally  despise  will  be  admitted  to  possess 
some  few  redeeming  virtues. 

And,  in  truth,  patience  is  one  of  them. 
Think  of  the  dull  books  which  lie  piled  upon 
his  table  !  Think  how  many  they  are,  and 
how  long  they  are,  and  how  alike  they  are, 
and  how  serious  they  are,  and  how  little  we 
ourselves  would  care  to  read  them !  If  the  re- 
viewer sometimes  misses  what  is  really  good, 
or  praises  what  is  really  bad,  this  does  not 
mean  that  he  is  incompetent,  dishonest,  or 
butcherly.  It  means  that  he  is  human,  that 
he  is  tired,  perhaps  a  little  peevish,  and  dis- 
posed to  think  the  world  would  be  a  merrier 
place  if  there  were  fewer  authors  in  it.  The 
new  novelist  or  budding  poet  who  comes  for- 
ward at  this  unpropitious  moment  is  not 
hailed  with  acclamations  of  delight ;  while  the 
conscientious  worker  who  has  spent  long 
months  in  compiling  the  weighty  memoirs  of 
departed  mediocrity  is  outraged  by  the  scant 
attention  he  receives.  Meanwhile  the  number 
of  books  increases  with  fearful  speed.  Each 
is  the  embodiment  of  a  sanguine  hope,  and 
each  claims  its  meed  of  praise.  A  fallible 


152  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

reviewer  struggles  with  the  situation  as  best 
he  can,  saying  pleasant  things  which  are  scan- 
tily merited,  and  sharp  things  which  are 
hardly  deserved ;  but  striving  intelligently, 
and  with  tolerable  success  to  tell  a  self-indul- 
gent public  something  about  the  volumes 
which  it  is  too  lazy  to  read  for  itself. 

"   O  dreams  of  the  tongues  that  commend  us, 
Of  crowns  for  the  laureate  pate, 
Of  a  public  to  buy  and  befriend  us, 
Ye  come  through  the  Ivory  Gate. 
But  the  critics  that  slash  us  and  slate, 
But  the  people  that  hold  us  in  scorn, 
But  the  sorrow,  the  scathe,  and  the  hate, 
Through  the  portals  of  horn." 


PASTELS  :  A  QUERY. 

I  SHOULD  like  to  be  told  by  one  of  the 
accomplished  critics  of  the  day  what  is  —  or 
rather  what  is  not  —  a  pastel  ?  Dictionaries, 
with  their  wonted  rigidity,  define  the  word 
as  "  a  colored  crayon,"  ignoring  its  literary 
significance,  and  affording  us  no  clue  to  its 
elusive  and  mutable  characteristics.  When  Mr. 
Stewart  Merrill  christened  his  pretty  little 
volume  of  translations  "  Pastels  in  Prose,"  he 
gave  us  to  understand,  with  the  assistance  of 
Mr.  Howells'  prefatory  remarks,  that  the 
name  was  an  apt  one  for  those  brief  bits  of 
unrhymed,  unrhythmical,  yet  highly  poetic 
composition  in  the  execution  of  which  the 
French  have  shown  such  singular  felicity  and 
grace.  Some  of  these  delicate  trifles  have 
the  concentrated  completeness  of  a  picture, 
and  for  them  the  name  is  surely  not  ill-chosen. 
Sombre,  or  joyous,  or  faintly  ironical,  they 
bring  before  our  eyes  with  vivid  distinctness 
every  outline  of  the  scene  they  portray. 


154  JX    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

"  Padre  Pugnaccio  "  and  "  Henriquez,"  by 
Louis  Bertrand,  and  that  strange  lovely  "  Cap- 
tive," by  Ephraim  Mikhael,  are  as  admirable 
in  their  limitations  as  in  their  finish.  They 
show  us  one  thing  only,  and  show  it  with 
swift  yet  comprehensive  lucidity.  But  if 
"  Padre  Pugnaccio  "  be  a  pastel,  then,  by  that 
same  token,  "  Solitude  "  is  not.  It  is  a  mod- 
erately long  and  wholly  allegorical  story,  and 
its  merits  are  of  a  different  order.  As  for 
Maurice  de  Guerin's  "  Centaur,"  that  noble 
fragment  has  nothing  in  common  with  the 
fragile  delicacy  of  the  pretty  little  picture 
poems  which  surround  it.  It  is  a  masterpiece 
of  breadth  and  virility.  Its  sonorous  sentences 
recall  the  keener  life  of  the  antique  world, 
and  it  stands  among  its  unsubstantial  com- 
panions like  a  bust  of  Hermes  in  a  group  of 
Dresden  figures,  all  charming,  but  all  dwarfed 
to  insignificance  by  the  side  of  that  strong 
young  splendor.  To  call  "  The  Centaur  "  a 
pastel  is  as  absurd  as  to  call  "  Endymion  "  an 
etching. 

However,  Mr.  Merrill's  translations  are  far 
from  defining  the  limits  of  the  term.  On  the 
contrary,  we  have  M.  Paul  Bourget's  group  of 


PASTELS:    A    QUERY.  155 

stories,  "Pastels  of  Men,"  which  are  not  prose 
poems  at  all,  nor  brief  pen  pictures  ;  but  tales 
of  a  rather  elaborate  and  unclean  order,  full 
of  wan  sentiment,  and  that  cheerless  vice  which 
robs  the  soul  without  gratifying  the  body. 
Occasionally,  as  in  the  sketch  of  the  poor  old 
teacher  living  his  meagre  life  from  hour  to 
hour,  M.  Bourget  draws  for  us,  with  melan- 
choly skill,  a  single  scene  from  the  painful 
drama  of  existence.  This  is  perhaps  a  pastel, 
since  the  word  must  be  employed  ;  but  why 
should  an  interminable  and  shifting  tale  about 
a  rich  young  widow,  who  cannot  make  up  her 
mind  in  less  than  a  hundred  pages  which  of 
her  four  lovers  she  will  marry,  be  called  by 
the  same  generic  title  ?  If  it  be  equally 
applicable  to  every  kind  of  story,  short  or 
long,  simple  or  involved,  descriptive  or  ana- 
lytic, then  it  has  no  real  meaning  at  all,  and 
becomes  a  mere  matter  of  capricious  selection. 
"  Wandering  Willie's  Tale,"  and  "  The  Cricket 
on  the  Hearth "  could  with  propriety  have 
been  termed  pastels. 

Nor  does  the  matter  stop  here.  In  Mr. 
Gosse's  recent  volume  of  essays,  he  has  in- 
cluded two  admirable  criticisms  on  Mr.  Robert 


156  7JV    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

Louis  Stevenson's  poetry,  and  on  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kipling's  prose.  These  papers,  discriminating, 
sympathetic,  and  exhaustive,  are  called  pastels. 
They  do  not  differ  in  any  way  from  other  crit- 
ical studies  of  equal  length  and  merit.  They 
abound  in  agreeable  quotations,  and  show  a 
clear  and  genial  appreciation  of  their  themes. 
They  are  simply  reviews  of  an  unusually  good 
order,  and  if  their  title  be  correctly  applied, 
then  it  is  serviceable  for  any  piece  of  literary 
criticism  which  deals  with  a  single  author. 
Macaulay's  "  Madame  D'Arblay,"  Mr.  Bin-ell's 
"Emerson,"  Mr.  Saintsbury's  "Peacock," 
might  all  have  been  named  pastels. 

By  this  time  the  subject  begins  to  grow  per- 
plexing. Miss  Wilkins  wanders  far  from  her 
true  gods,  and  from  the  sources  of  her  genuine 
inspiration,  to  write  a  handful  of  labored 
sketches  —  pen  pictures  perhaps,  albeit  a  trifle 
stiff  in  execution  —  which  she  calls  pastels. 
Mr.  Brander  Matthews  gives  us,  as  his  contri- 
bution to  the  puzzle,  a  vivid  description  of 
Carmencita  dancing  in  a  New  York  studio,  and 
calls  it  a  pastel.  If  we  stray  from  prose  to 
verse,  we  are  tripped  up  at  every  step.  Nebu- 
lous little  couplets,  songs  of  saddening  subtlety, 


PASTELS:    A    QUERY.  157 

weird  conceits  and  high-pacing  rhymes  are 
thoughtfully  labeled  pastels,  so  as  to  give  us  a 
clue  to  their  otherwise  impenetrable  obscurity. 
Sullen  seas,  and  wan  twilights,  and  dim  garden 
paths,  relieved  with  ghostly  lilies,  and  white- 
armed  women  of  dubious  decorum,  are  the 
chief  ingredients  of  these  poetic  novelties  ;  but 
here  is  one,  picked  up  by  chance,  which  reads 
like  a  genial  conundrum  :  — 

"  The  light  of  our  cigarettes 
Went  and  came  in  the  gloom  ; 
It  was  dark  in  the  little  room. 

Dark,  and  then  in  the  dark, 

Sudden,  a  flash,  a  glow, 

And  a  hand  and  a  ring  I  know. 

And  then,  through  the  dark,  a  flush, 
Ruddy  and  vague,  the  grace  — 
A  rose  — of  her  lyric  face." 

Now,  if  that  be  a  pastel,  and  Mr.  Gosse's 
reviews  are  pastels,  and  M.  Bourget's  stories 
are  pastels,  and  Maurice  de  Guerin's  "  Cen- 
taur "  is  a  pastel,  and  Mr.  Brander  Matthews' 
realistic  sketches  are  pastels,  and  Ephraim 
MikhaeTs  allegories  are  pastels,  I  should  like 
to  be  told,  by  some  one  who  knows,  just  where 
the  limits  of  the  term  is  set. 


GUESTS. 

A  VERY  charming  and  vivacious  old  lady, 
who  had  spent  most  of  her  early  life  in  the 
country,  once  said  to  me  that  the  keenest 
pleasure  of  her  childhood  was  the  occasional 
arrival  of  her  mother's  guests ;  the  keenest 
regret,  their  inevitable  and  too  speedy  depar- 
ture. "  They  seldom  stayed  more  than  a  fort- 
night," she  observed,  plaintively  ;  "  though 
now  and  then  some  cousins  prolonged  their 
visits  for  another  week.  What  I  most  en- 
joyed on  these  occasions  was  the  increased 
good  temper  of  my  own  family.  Annoyances 
were  laughed  at,  our  noisy  behavior  was  over- 
looked, conversation  took  an  agreeable  turn, 
and  a  delightful  air  of  cheerfulness  and  good 
humor  pervaded  the  entire  household.  It 
seemed  to  my  infant  eyes  that  life  would  be  a 
matter  of  flawless  enjoyment  if  we  could  only 
have  visitors  always  in  the  house." 

A  little  of  this  frankly  expressed  sentiment 
will  find  an  echo  in  many  hearts,  and  perhaps 


GUESTS.  159 

awaken  some  pangs  of  conscience  on  the  way. 
It  is  the  restraint  we  put  upon  ourselves,  the 
honest  effort  we  make  at  amiability,  which 
renders  social  intercourse  possible  and  pleas- 
ant. When  the  restraint  grows  irksome,  the 
amiability  a  burden,  we  pay  to  those  we  love 
best  on  earth  the  dubious  compliment  of  being 
perfectly  natural  in  their  company.  "  What 
is  the  use  of  having  a  family  if  you  cannot  be 
disagreeable  in  the  bosom  of  it  ? "  was  the 
explicit  acknowledgment  I  once  overheard  of  a 
service  which  seldom  meets  with  such  clear 
and  candid  recognition.  Hazlitt  himself  could 
have  given  no  plainer  expression  to  a  thought 
which  few  of  us  would  care  to  trick  out  in  all 
the  undisguised  sincerity  of  language. 

Guests  are  the  delight  of  leisure,  and  the 
solace  of  ennui.  It  is  the  steady  and  merci- 
less increase  of  occupations,  the  augmented 
speed  at  which  we  are  always  trying  to  live, 
the  crowding  of  each  day  with  more  work  and 
amusement  than  it  can  profitably  hold,  which 
have  cost  us,  among  other  good  things,  the 
undisturbed  enjoyment  of  our  friends.  Friend- 
ship takes  time,  and  we  have  no  time  to  give  it. 
We  have  to  go  to  so  many  teas,  and  lectures, 


160  AV    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

and  committee  meetings  ;  we  have  taken  up 
so  many  interesting  and  exacting  careers  ;  we 
have  assumed  so  many  duties  and  responsibili- 
ties, that  there  is  not  a  spare  corner  in  our 
lives  which  we  are  free  to  fill  up  as  we  please. 
Society,  philanthropy,  and  culture  divide  our 
waking  hours.  Defrauded  friendship  gets  a 
few  moments  now  and  again,  and  is  bidden  to 
content  itself,  and  please  not  to  be  troublesome 
any  more.  I  once  ras.hly  asked  a  girl  of 
twenty  if  she  saw  a  great  deal  of  a  young  mar- 
ried woman  whom  she  had  just  declared  to  be 
her  dearest  and  most  cherished  friend.  "  I 
never  see  her  at  all,"  was  the  satisfied  answer, 
"  except  by  chance,  at  a  tea  or  a  club  meeting. 
We  live  so  very  far  apart,  as  you  know.  It 
would  take  tltc  heart  of  an  afternoon  to  try 
and  make  her  a  visit."'' 

Now,  to  understand  the  charm  of  leisurely 
and  sympathetic  intercourse,  we  should  read  the 
letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  ;  to  appreciate 
the  resources  of  ennui,  we  should  read  the  nov- 
els of  Jane  Austen.  With  Madame  de  Sevigne 
guests  were  not  useful  as  an  alleviation  of  bore- 
dom ;  they  were  valuable  because  they  added 
to  the  interest,  the  beauty  and  the  zest  of 


GUESTS.  1G1 

life.  It  never  occurred  to  this  charming 
Frenchwoman,  nor  to  her  contemporaries, 
that  time  conld  be  better  spent  than  in  enter- 
taining or  being  entertained  by  friends.  Con- 
versation was  not  then  small  coinr  to  be  paid 
ont  hastily  like  car-fare,  merely  in  order  to 
get  from  one  necessary  topic  to  another.  It 
was  the  golden  mean  through  which  a  generous 
regard,  a  graceful  courtesy,  or  a  sparkling  wit 
lent  beauty  and  distinction  to  every  hour  of 
intercourse.  A  little  group  of  friends  in  a 
quiet  countryside,  with  none  of  the  robust  di- 
versions of  English  rural  life.  It  has  a  sleepy 
sound  ;  yet  such  was  the  pleasure-giving  power 
of  hostess  and  of  guest  that  this  leisurely  com- 
panionship was  fraught  with  fine  delight,  and 
its  fruits  are  our  inheritance  to-day,  lingering 
for  us  in  the  pages  of  those  matchless  letters 
from  which  time  can  never  steal  the  charm. 

It  is  Miss  Austen,  however,  who,  with  relent- 
less candor,  has  shown  us  how  usefully  guests 
may  be  emploved  as  an  antidote  for  the  ennui 
of  intellectual  vacuity.  They  are  the  chosen 
relief  for  that  direful  dullness  which  country 
gentlemen  "'  like  Sir  John  Middleton,"  expe- 
rience from  lack  of  occupation  and  ideas ;  they 


162  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

are  the  solace  of  sickly,  uninteresting  women 
who  desire  some  one  to  share  with  them  the 
monotonous  current  of  existence.  The  Mid- 
dletons,  we  are  assured,  "  lived  in  a  style  of 
equal  hospitality  and  elegance.  They  were 
scarcely  ever  without  some  friends  staying 
with  them  in  the  house,  and  they  kept  more 
company  of  every  kind  than  any  other 
family  in  the  neighborhood."  This  indul- 
gence, it  appears,  while  equally  welcome  to 
host  and  hostess,  was  more  necessary  to  Sir 
John's  happiness  than  to  his  wife's ;  for  she 
at  least  possessed  one  other  source  of  continual 
and  unflagging  diversion.  "  Sir  John  was  a 
sportsman,  Lady  Middleton  a  mother.  He 
hunted  and  shot,  and  she  humored  her  chil- 
dren ;  and  these  were  their  only  resources. 
Lady  Middleton,  however,  had  the  advantage 
of  being  able  to  spoil  her  children  all  the  year 
round,  while  Sir  John's  independent  employ- 
ments were  in  existence  only  half  the  time." 

Guests  play  an  important  part  in  Miss  Aus- 
ten's novels,  as  they  did  in  Miss  Austen's  life, 
and  in  the  lives  of  all  the  hospitable  country- 
people  of  her  time.  Moreover,  the  visits  her 
heroines  and  their  friends  pay  are  not  little  tri- 


GUESTS.  163 

fling-  modern  affairs  of  a  few  days  or  a  week. 
Distances  counted  for  something  when  they  had 
to  be  traveled  in  a  carriage  or  a  post-chaise  ; 
and  wjien  people  came  to  see  their  friends 
in  that  fashion,  they  came  to  stay.  Elizabeth 
Bennet  and  Maria  Lucas  spend  six  weeks 
with  Charlotte  Collins  ;  and  Lady  Catherine,  it 
will  be  remembered,  does  not  at  all  approve  of 
their  returning  home  so  quickly.  "  I  expected 
you  to  stay  two  months,"  she  says  severely  — 
they  are  not  her  guests  at  all  —  "I  told  Mrs. 
Collins  so,  before  you  came.  There  can  be  no 
occasion  for  your  going  so  soon."  Eleanor 
and  Marianne  Dashwood  begin  their  visit  to 
Mrs.  Jennings  the  first  week  of  January,  and 
it  is  April  before  we  find  them  setting  forth 
on  their  return.  Anne  Elliot  goes  to  Upper- 
cross  for  two  months,  though  the  only  induce- 
ment offered  her  is  Mary  Musgrove's  pro- 
phetic remark  that  she  does  not  expect  to 
have  a  day's  health  all  autumn  ;  and  her  only 
pastime  as  a  visitor  appears  to  be  the  somewhat 
dubious  diversion  of  making  herself  generally 
useful.  It  is  a  far  cry  from  our  busy  age  to 
either  Miss  Austen  or  Madame  de  Sevigne. 
The  bounteous  resources  of  a  highly  cultivated 


164  JN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

leisure  have  never  been  very  clearly  under- 
stood by  the  English-speaking  race.  The  alle- 
viations of  inactivity  and  ennui  are  no  longer 
with  us  a  rigorous  necessity.  Our  vioes  and 
our  virtues  conspire  to  defraud  us  of  that 
charming  and  sustained  social  intercourse 
which  is  possible  only  when  we  have  the  un- 
disturbed possession  of  our  friends  ;  when  we 
are  so  happy  as  to  be  sheltered  under  the  same 
roof,  to  pursue  the  same  occupations,  to  enjoy 
the  same  pleasures,  to  exchange  thoughts  and 
sentiments  with  entire  freedom  and  familiarity. 
"  I  cannot  afford  to  speak  much  to  my 
friend,"  says  Emerson,  meaning  that  it  is  a 
privilege  he  neither  values  nor  desires.  We 
cannot  afford  to  speak  much  to  our  friends, 
though  we  may  desire  it  with  our  whole  hearts, 
because  we  have  been  foolish  enough  to  per- 
suade ourselves  that  we  have  other  and  better 
things  to  do. 


SYMPATHY. 

"  SYMPATHY,"  says  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Ste- 
venson, is  a  thing  to  be  encouraged,  apart 
from  human  considerations,  because  it  sup- 
plies us  with  materials  for  wisdom.  It  is  pro- 
bably more  instnictive  to  entertain  a  sneaking 
kindness  for  any  unpopular  person  than  to 
give  way  to  perfect  raptures  of  moral  indig- 
nation against  his  abstract  vices." 

These  are  brave  words,  and  spoken  in  one 
of  those  swift  flashes  of  spiritual  insight  which 
at  first  bewilder  and  then  console  us.  We 
have  our  share  of  sympathy  ;  hearty,  healthy, 
human  sympathy  for  all  that  is  strong  and 
successful ;  but  the  force  of  moral  indignation 
—  either  our  own  or  our  neighbors'  — has  well- 
nigh  cowed  us  into  silence.  The  fashion  of  the 
day  provides  a  procrustean  standard  for  every 
form  of  distinction  ;  and,  if  it  does  not  fit,  it 
is  lopped  down  to  the  necessary  insignificance. 
Those  stern,  efficient,  one-sided  men  of  action 
who  made  history  at  the  expense  of  their  finer 


166  IN   THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

natures  ;  those  fiery  enthusiasts  who  bore 
down  all  just  opposition  to  their  designs ; 
those  loyal  servants  who  saw  no  right  nor 
wrong  save  in  the  will  of  their  sovereigns ; 
those  keen-eyed  statesmen  who  served  their 
countries  with  craft,  and  guile,  and  dissimula- 
tion ;  those  light-hearted  prodigals  who  flung 
away  their  lives  with  a  smile ;  —  are  none  of 
these  to  yield  us  either  edification  or  delight? 
"  Do  great  deeds,  and  they  will  sing  them- 
selves," says  Emerson  ;  but  it  must  be  con- 
fessed the  songs  are  often  of  a  very  dismal 
and  enervating  character.  Columbus  did  a 
great  deed  when  he  crossed  the  ocean  and  dis- 
covered the  fair,  unknown  land  of  promise ; 
yet  many  of  the  songs  in  which  we  sing  his 
fame  sound  a  good  deal  like  paeans  of  re- 
proach. The  prevailing  sentiment  appears  to 
be  that  a  person  so  manifestly  ignorant  and 
improper  should  never  have  been  permitted 
to  discover  America  at  all. 

This  sickly  tone  is  mirrored  in  much  of  the 
depressing  literature  of  our  day.  It  finds 
amplest  expression  in  such  joyless  books  as 
"  The  Heavenly  Twins,"  the  heroine  of  which 
remarks  with  commendable  self-confidence 


SYMPATHY.  167 

that  "  The  trade  of  governing  is  a  coarse  pur- 
suit ;  "  and  also  that  "  War  is  the  dirty  work 
of  a  nation  ;  one  of  the  indecencies  of  life." 
She  cannot  even  endure  to  hear  it  alluded  to 
when  she  is  near ;  but,  like  Athene,  whose 
father,  Zeus,  "  by  chance  spake  of  love  mat- 
ters in  her  presence,"  she  flies  chastely  from 
the  very  sound  of  such  ill-doing.  Now  on  first 
reading  this  sensitive  criticism,  one  is  tempted 
to  a  great  shout  of  laughter,  quite  as  coarse, 
I  fear,  as  the  pursuit  of  governing,  and  almost 
as  indecent  as  war.  Ah !  founders  of  em- 
pires, and  masters  of  men,  where  are  your 
laurels  now?  If  some  people  in  public  life 
were  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Wititterly's  real 
opinion  of  them,"  says  Mr.  Wititterly  to 
Kate  Nickleby,  "  they  would  not  hold  their 
heads  perhaps  quite  as  high  as  they  do."  But 
in  moments  of  soberness  such  distorted  points 
of  view  seem  rather  more  melancholy  than  di- 
verting. Evadne  is,  after  all,  but  the  feeble 
reflex  of  an  over-anxious  age  which  has  lost 
itself  in  a  labyrinth  of  responsibilities.  Shel- 
ley, whose  rigidity  of  mind  was  at  times  al- 
most inconceivable,  did  not  hesitate  to  deny 
every  attribute  of  greatness  wherever  he  felt 


168  jy    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

no  sympathy.  To  him,  Constantine  was  a 
"  Christian  reptile,"  a  "  stupid  and  wicked 
monster  ;  "  while  of  Napoleon  he  writes  with 
the  invincible  gravity  of  youth.  "  Buona- 
parte's talents  appear  to  me  altogether  con- 
temptible and  commonplace ;  incapable  as  he 
is  of  comparing  connectedly  the  most  obvious 
propositions,  or  relishing  any  pleasure  truly 
enrapturing." 

To  the  mundane  and  unpoetic  mind  it 
would  seem  that  there  were  several  proposi- 
tions, obvious  or  otherwise,  which  Napoleon 
was  capable  of  comparing  quite  connectedly, 
and  that  his  ruthless,  luminous  fashion  of 
dealing  with  such  made  him  more  terrible 
than  fate.  As  for  pleasures,  he  knew  how 
to  read  and  relish  "  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  for 
which  evidence  of  sound  literary  taste,  one 
Englishman  at  least,  Hazlitt,  honored  and 
loved  him  greatly.  If  we  are  seeking  an  em- 
bodiment of  unrelieved  excellence  who  will 
work  up  well  into  moral  anecdotes  and  jour- 
nalistic platitudes,  the  emperor  is  plainly  not 
what  we  require.  But  when  we  have  great 
men  under  consideration,  let  us  at  least  think 
of  their  greatness.  Let  us  permit  our  little 


SYMPATHY.  169 

hearts  to  expand,  and  our  little  eyes  to  sweep  a 
broad  horizon.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
I  dislike  so  much  as  to  be  reminded  of  Na- 
poleon's rudeness  to  Madame  de  Stael,  or  of 
Caesar's  vain  attempt  to  hide  his  baldness. 
Ctesar  was  human ;  that  is  his  charm ;  and 
Madame  de  Stael  would  have  sorely  strained 
the  courtesy  of  good  King  Arthur.  Had  she 
attached  herself  unflinchingly  to  his  court,  it 
is  probable  he  would  have  ended  by  request- 
ing her  to  go  elsewhere. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  never  worth  while 
to  assert  that  genius  repeals  the  decalogue. 
We  cannot  believe  with  M.  Waliszewski  that 
because  Catherine  of  Russia  was  a  great  ruler 
she  was,  even  in  the  smallest  degree,  privi- 
leged to  be  an  immoral  woman,  to  give  "  free 
course  to  her  senses  imperially."  The  same 
commandment  binds  with  equal  rigor  both  em- 
press and  costermonger.  But  it  is  the  great- 
ness of  Catherine,  and  not  her  immorality, 
which  concerns  us  deeply.  It  is  the  greatness 
of  Marlborough,  of  Richelieu,  and  of  Sir 
Robert  AValpole  which  we  do  well  to  consider, 
and  not  their  shortcomings,  though  from  the 
tone  assumed  too  often  by  critics  and  histo- 


170  IN    THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

rians,  one  would  imagine  that  duplicity,  am- 
bition and  cynicism  were  the  only  attributes 
these  men  possessed  ;  that  they  stood  for  their 
vices  alone.  One  would  imagine  also  that  the 
same  sins  were  quite  unfamiliar  in  humble 
life,  and  had  never  been  practised  on  a  petty 
scale  by  lawyers  and  journalists  and  bank 
clerks.  Yet  vice,  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  re- 
minds us,  may  be  had  at  all  prices.  "  Expen- 
sive and  costly  iniquities  which  make  the 
noise  cannot  be  every  man's  sins ;  but  the  soul 
may  be  foully  inquinated  at  a  very  low  rate, 
and  a  man  may  be  cheaply  vicious  to  his  own 
perdition/' 

It  is  possible  then  to  overdo  moral  criticism, 
and  to  cheat  ourselves  out  of  both  pleasure 
and  profit  by  narrowing  our  sympathies,  and 
by  applying  modern  or  national  standards  to 
men  of  other  ages  and  of  another  race.  In- 
stead of  realizing,  with  Carlyle,  that  eminence 
of  any  kind  is  a  most  wholesome  thing  to  con- 
template and  to  revere,  we  are  perpetually 
longing  for  some  crucial  test  which  will  divide 
true  heroism  —  as  we  now  regard  it  —  from 
those  forceful  qualities  which  the  world  has 
hitherto  been  content  to  call  heroic.  1  have 


SYMPATHY.  171 

heard  people  gravely  discuss  the  possibility  of 
excluding  from  histories,  from  school  histories 
especially,  the  adjective  "  great,"  wherever  it 
is  used  to  imply  success  unaccompanied  by 
moral  excellence.  Alfred  the  Great  might 
be  permitted  to  retain  his  title.  Like  the 
"  blameless  Ethiops,"  he  is  safely  sheltered 
from  our  too  penetrating  observation.  But 
Alexander,  Frederick,  Catherine,  and  Louis 
should  be  handed  down  to  future  ages  as  the 
"  well-known."  Alexander  the  Well-Known  ! 
We  can  all  say  that  with  clear  consciences, 
and  without  implying  any  sympathy  or  regard 
for  a  person  so  manifestly  irregular  in  his  hab- 
its, and  seemingly  so  devoid  of  all  altruistic 
emotions.  It  is  true  that  Mr.  Addington  Sy- 
monds  has  traced  a  resemblance  between  the 
Macedonian  conqueror,  and  the  ideal  warrior 
of  the  Grecian  camp,  Achilles  the  strong- 
armed  and  terrible.  Alexander,  he  maintains, 
is  Achilles  in  the  flesh ;  passionate,  uncon- 
trolled, with  an  innate  sense  of  what  is  great 
and  noble  ;  but  "  dragged  in  the  mire  of  the 
world  and  enthralled  by  the  necessities  of  hu- 
man life."  The  difference  between  them  is 
but  the  difference  between  the  heroic  concep- 


172  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

tion  of  a  poet  and   the   stern   limitations  of 
reality. 

Apart,  however,  from  the  fact  that  Mr.  Sy- 
monds  was  not  always  what  the  undergradu- 
ate lightly  calls  "  up  in  ethics,"  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  Achilles  himself  meets  with  scant 
favor  in  our  benevolent  age.  "  Homer  mir- 
rors the  world's  young  manhood ;  "  but  we 
have  grown  old  and  exemplary,  and  shake  our 
heads  over  the  lusty  fierceness  of  the  warrior, 
and  the  facile  repentance  of  Helen,  and  the 
wicked  wiles  of  Circe,  which  do  not  appear  to 
have  met  with  the  universal  reprobation  they 
deserve.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  a  blithe 
good-temper  in  the  poet's  treatment  of  the  en- 
chantress, whose  very  name  is  so  charming  it 
disarms  all  wrath.  Circe  !  The  word  is  sweet 
upon  our  lips ;  and  this  light-hearted  embodi- 
ment of  beauty  and  malice  is  not  to  be  judged 
from  the  bleak  stand-point  of  Salem  witch- 
hunters.  If  we  are  content  to  take  men  and 
women,  in  and  out  of  books,  with  their  edifi- 
cation disguised,  we  may  pass  a  great  many 
agreeable  hours  in  their  society,  and  find  our- 
selves unexpectedly  benefited  even  by  those 
who  appear  least  meritorious  in  our  eyes.  A 


SYMPATHY.  173 

frank  and  generous  sympathy  for  any  much 
maligned  and  sorely  slandered  character,  — 
such,  for  instance,  as  Graham  of  Claverhouse ; 
a  candid  recognition  of  his  splendid  virtues 
and  of  his  single  vice ;  a  clear  conception  of 
his  temperament,  his  ability,  and  his  work,  — 
these  things  are  of  more  real  service  in  broad- 
ening our  appreciations,  and  interpreting  our 
judgments,  than  are  a  score  of  unqualified 
opinions  taken  ready-made  from  the  most  ad- 
mirable historians  in  Christendom.  It  is  a 
liberal  education  to  recognize,  and  to  endeavor 
to  understand  any  form  of  eminence  which  the 
records  of  mankind  reveal. 

As  for  the  popular  criticism  which  fastens 
on  a  feature  and  calls  it  a  man,  nothing  can 
be  easier  or  more  delusive.  Claverhouse  was 
merciless  and  densely  intolerant ;  but  he  was 
also  loyal,  brave,  and  reverent ;  temperate  in 
his  habits,  cleanly  in  his  life,  and  one  of  the 
first  soldiers  of  his  day.  Surely  this  leaves 
some  little  balance  in  his  favor.  Marlbor- 
ough  may  have  been  as  false  as  Judas  and  as 
ambitious  as  Lucifer ;  but  he  was  also  the 
greatest  of  English-speaking  generals,  and 
England  owes  him  something  better  than  pic' 


174  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

turesque  invectives.  What  can  we  say  to  peo- 
ple who  talk  to  us  anxiously  about  Byron's 
unkindness  to  Leigh  Hunt,  and  Dr.  Johnson's 
illiberal  attitude  towards  Methodism,  and 
Scott's  incomprehensible  friendship  for  John 
Ballantyne  ;  who  remind  us  with  austere  dis- 
satisfaction that  Goldsmith  did  not  pay  his 
debts,  and  that  Lamb  drank  more  than  was 
good  for  him,  and  that  Dickens  dressed  loudly 
and  wore  flashy  jewelry  ?  I  don't  care  what 
Dickens  wore.  I  would  not  care  if  he  had 
decorated  himself  with  bangles,  and  anklets, 
and  earrings,  and  a  nose-ring,  provided  he 
wrote  "Pickwick"  and  "  David  Copperfield." 
If  there  be  any  living  novelist  who  can  give  us 
such  another  as  Sam  Weller,  or  Dick  Swivel- 
ler,  or  Mr.  Micawber,  or  Mrs.  Gamp,  or  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  let  him  festoon  himself  with  gauds 
from  head  to  foot,  and  wedge  his  fingers 
"  knuckle-deep  with  rings,"  like  the  lady  in 
the  old  song,  and  then  sit  down  and  write. 
The  world  will  readily  forgive  him  his  em- 
bellishments. It  has  forgiven  Flaubert  his 
dressing-gown,  and  George  Sand  her  eccentri- 
cities of  attire,  and  Goldsmith  his  coat  of 
Tyrian  bloom,  and  the  blue  silk  breeches  for 


SYMPATHY.  17-^ 

which  he  probably  never  paid  his  tailor.  It 
has  forgiven  Dr.  Johnson  all  his  little  sins  ; 
and  Lamb  the  only  sin  for  which  he  craves 
forgiveness  ;  and  Scott  —  but  here  we  are  not 
privileged  even  to  offer  pardon.  "  It  ill  be- 
comes either  you  or  me  to  compare  ourselves 
with  Scott,"  said  Thackeray  to  a  young  writer 
who  excused  himself  for  some  literary  laxity 
by  saying  that  "  Sir  Walter  did  the  same." 
"  We  should  take  off  our  hats  whenever  that 
great  and  good  man's  name  is  mentioned  in 
our  presence." 


OPINIONS. 

IT  has  been  occasionally  remarked  by  peo- 
ple who  are  not  wholly  in  sympathy  with  the 
methods  and  devices  of  our  time  that  this  is 
an  age  of  keen  intellectual  curiosity.  We 
have  scant  leisure  and  scant  liking  for  hard 
study,  and  we  no  longer  recognize  the  admi- 
rable qualities  of  a  wise  and  contented  igno- 
rance. Accordingly,  there  has  been  invented 
for  us  in  late  years,  a  via  media,  a  something 
which  is  neither  light  nor  darkness,  a  short 
cut  to  that  goal  which  we  used  to  be  assured 
had  no  royal  road  for  languid  feet  to  follow. 
The  apparent  object  of  the  new  system  is  to 
enable  us  to  live  like  gentlemen,  or  like  gentle- 
women, on  other  people's  ideas ;  to  spare  us 
the  labor  and  exhaustion  incidental  to  forming 
opinions  of  our  own  by  giving  us  the  free  use 
of  other  people's  opinions.  There  is  a  charm- 
ing simplicity  in  the  scheme,  involving  as  it 
does  no  effort  of  thought  or  mental  adjust- 
ment, which  cannot  fail  to  heartily  recom- 


OPJXWXS.  177 

mend  it  to  the  general  public,  while  the  addi- 
tional merit  of  cheapness  endears  it  to  its 
thrifty  upholders.  We  are  all  accustomed  to 
talk  vaguely  about  "  questions  of  burning  inter- 
est," and  "  the  absorbing  problems  of  the  day." 
Some  of  us  even  go  so  far  as  to  have  a  toler- 
ably clear  notion  of  what  these  questions  and 
problems  are.  It  is  but  natural,  then,  that 
we  should  take  a  lively  pleasure,  not  in  the 
topics  themselves,  about  which  we  care  very 
little,  but  in  the  persuasions  and  convictions 
of  our  neighbors,  about  which  we  have  learned 
to  care  a  great  deal.  Discussions  rage  on 
every  side  of  us,  and  the  easy,  offhand,  cock- 
sure verdicts  which  are  so  frankly  confided  to 
the  world  have  become  a  recognized  source  of 
popular  education  and  enlightenment. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  this  feverish 
exchange  of  opinions  received  a  fatal  impetus 
from  that  curious  epidemic  rife  in  England  a 
few  years  ago,  and  known  as  the  "  Lists  of  a 
Hundred  Books."  Never  before  had  such  an 
admirable  opportunity  been  offered  to  people 
to  put  on  what  are  commonly  called  "  frills," 
and  it  must  be  confessed  they  made  the  most 
of  it.  The  Koran,  the  Analects  of  Confucius, 


178  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

Spinoza,  Herodotus,  Demosthenes,  Xenophon, 
Lewis's  History  of  Philosophy,  the  Saga  of 
Burnt  Njal,  Locke's  Conduct  of  the  L^nder- 
staiiding,  —  such,  and  such  only,  were  the 
works  unflinchingly  urged  upon  us  by  men 
whom  we  had  considered,  perhaps,  as  human 
as  ourselves,  whom  we  might  almost  have  sus- 
pected of  solacing  their  lighter  moments  with 
an  occasional  study  of  Rider  Haggard  or  Ga- 
boriau.  If  readers  could  be  made  by  the  sim- 
ple process  of  deluging  the  world  with  good 
counsel,  these  arbitrary  lists  would  have 
marked  a  new  intellectual  era.  As  it  was, 
they  merely  excited  a  lively  but  unfruitful 
curiosity.  "  Living  movements,"  Cardinal 
Newman  reminds  us,  "•  do  not  come  of  commit- 
tees." I  knew,  indeed,  one  impetuous  student 
who  rashly  purchased  the  Grammar  of  Assent 
because  she  saw  it  in  a  list ;  but  there  was  a 
limit  even  to  her  ardor,  for  eighteen  months 

~ 

afterwards  the  leaves  were  still  uncut.  It  is 
a  striking  proof  of  Mr.  Arnold's  inspired 
rationality  that,  while  so  many  of  his  country- 
men were  instructing  us  in  this  peremptory 
fashion,  he  alone,  who  might  have  spoken 
with  authority,  declined  to  add  his  name  and 


179 

list  to  the  rest.     It  was  an  amusing  game,  lie 
said,  but  he  felt  no  disposition  to  play  it. 

Some  variations  of  this  once  popular  pastime 
have  lingered  even  to  our  day.  Lists  of  the 
best  American  authors,  lists  of  the  best  foreign 
authors,  lists  of  the  best  ten  books  published 
within  a  decade,  have  appeared  occasionally 
in  our  journals,  while  a  list  of  books  which 
prominent  people  intended  or  hoped  to  read 
"  in  the  near  future  "  filled  us  with  respect  for 
such  heroic  anticipations.  Ten- volume  works 
of  the  severest  character  counted  as  trifles  in 
these  prospective  studies.  For  the  past  year, 
it  is  true,  the  World's  Fair  has  given  a  less 
scholastic  tone  to  newspaper  discussions.  We 
hear  comparatively  little  about  the  Analects 
of  Confucius,  and  a  great  deal  about  the 
White  City,  and  the  Department  of  Anthro- 
pology. Perhaps  it  is  better  to  tell  the  pub- 
lic your  impressions  of  the  Fair  than  to  con- 
fide to  it  your  favorite  authors.  One  revela- 
tion is  as  valuable  as  the  other,  but  it  is  pos- 
sible, with  caution,  to  talk  about  Chicago  in 
terms  that  will  give  general  satisfaction.  It 
is  not  possible  to  express  literary,  artistic,  or 
national  preferences  without  exposing  one's 


180  7AT    THE    DOZY     HOURS. 

self  to  vigorous  reproaches  from  people  who 
hold  different  views.  I  was  once  lured  by  a 
New  York  periodical  into  a  number  of  harm- 
less confidences,  unlikely,  it  seemed  to  me,  to 
awaken  either  interest  or  indignation.  The 
questions  asked  were  of  the  mildly  searching 
order,  like  those  which  delighted  the  hearts  of 
children,  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  in  our 
"Mental  Photograph  Albums."  "Who  is 
your  favorite  character  in  fiction  ?  "  "  Who 
is  your  favorite  character  in  history  ? " 
"  What  do  you  consider  the  finest  attribute  of 
man  ?  "  Having  amiably  responded  to  a  por- 
tion of  these  inquiries,  I  was  surprised  and 
flattered,  some  weeks  later,  at  seeing  myself 
described  in  a  daily  paper  —  on  the  strength, 
too.  of  my  own  confessions  —  as  irrational, 
morbid,  and  cruel ;  excusable  only  on  the 
score  of  melancholy  surroundings  and  a  sickly 
constitution.  And  the  delightful  part  of  it 
was  that  I  had  apparently  revealed  all  this 
myself.  "  Do  not  contend  in  words  about 
things  of  no  consequence,"  counsels  St.  Teresa, 
who  carried  with  her  to  the  cloister  wisdom 
enough  to  have  kept  all  of  us  poor  worldlings 
out  of  trouble. 


OPINIONS.  181 

The  system  by  which  opinions  of  little  or  no 
value  are  assiduously  collected  and  generously 
distributed  is  far  too  complete  to  be  baffled  by 
inexperience  or  indifference.  The  enterpris- 
ing editor  or  journalist  who  puts  the  question 
is  very  much  like  Sir  Charles  Napier;  he 
wants  an  answer  of  some  kind,  however  inca- 
pable we  may  be  of  giving  it.  A  list  of  the 
queries  propounded  to  me  in  the  last  year  or 
so  recalls  painfully  my  own  comprehensive  ig- 
norance. These  are  a  few"  which  I  remember. 
What  Avas  my  opinion  of  college  training  as 
a  preparation  for  literary  work  ?  What  was 
my  opinion  of  Greek  comedy  ?  Was  I  a  pes- 
simist or  an  optimist,  and  why  ?  What  were 
my  favorite  flowers,  and  did  I  cultivate  them? 
What  books  did  I  think  young  children  ought 
not  to  read  ?  At  what  age  and  under  what 
impulses  did  I  consider  children  first  began 
to  swear?  What  especial  and  serious  studies 
would  I  propose  for  married  women  ?  What 
did  I  consider  most  necessary  for  the  all- 
around  development  of  the  coming  young 
man  ?  It  appeared  useless  to  urge  in  reply  to 
these  questions  that  I  had  never  been  to  col- 
lege, never  read  a  line  of  Greek,  never  been 


182  IN    THE    DOZY  HOURS. 

married,  never  taken  charge  of  children,  and 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  developing  young 
men.  I  found  that  my  ignorance  on  all  these 
points  was  assumed  from  the  beginning,  but 
that  this  fact  only  made  my  opinions  more  in- 
teresting and  piquant  to  people  as  ignorant  as 
myself.  Neither  did  it  ever  occur  to  my  cor- 
respondents that  if  I  had  known  anything 
about  Greek  comedy  or  college  training,  I 
should  have  endeavored  to  turn  my  knowledge 
into  money  by  writing  articles  of  my  own,  and 
should  never  have  been  so  lavish  as  to  give  my 
information  away. 

That  these  public  discussions  or  symposiums 
are,  however,  an  occasional  comfort  to  their 
participants  was  proven  by  the  alacrity  with 
which  a  number  of  writers  came  forward,  some 
years  ago,  to  explain  to  the  world  why  Eng- 
lish fiction  was  not  a  finer  and  stronger  ar- 
ticle. Innocent  and  short-sighted  readers, 
wedded  to  the  obvious,  had  foolishly  supposed 
that  modern  novels  were  rather  forlorn  be- 
cause the  novelists  were  not  able  to  write  bet- 
ter ones.  It  therefore  became  the  manifest 
duty  of  the  novelists  to  notify  us  clearly  that 
they  were  able  to  write  very  much  better  ones, 


OPINIONS.  183 

but  that  the  public  would  not  permit  them  to 
do  it.  Like  Dr.  Holmes,  they  did  not  ven- 
ture to  be  as  funny  as  they  could.  "  Thought- 
ful readers  of  mature  age,"  we  were  told,  "  are 
perishing  for  accuracy."  This  accuracy  they 
were,  one  and  all,  prepared  to  furnish  without 
stint,  but  were  prohibited  lest  "  the  clash  of 
broken  commandments  "  should  be  displeasing 
to  polite  female  ears.  A  great  deal  of  angry 
sentiment  was  exchanged  on  this  occasion,  and 
a  great  many  original  and  valuable  sugges- 
tions were  offered  by  way  of  relief.  It  was  an 
admirable  opportunity  for  any  one  who  had 
written  a  story  to  confide  to  the  world  "  the 
theory  of  his  art,"  to  make  self-congratulatory 
remarks  upon  his  own  u  standpoint,"  and  to 
deprecate  the  stupid  propriety  of  ih^  public. 
When  the  echoes  of  these  passionate  protesta- 
tions had  died  into  silence,  we  took  comfort  in 
thinking  that  Hawthorne  had  not  delayed  to 
write  "  The  Scarlet  Letter  "  from  a  sensitive 
regard  for  his  neighbors'  opinions  ;  and  that 
two  great  nations,  unvexed  by  "  the  clash  of 
broken  commandments,"  had  received  the 
book  as  a  heritage  of  infinite  beauty  and  de- 
light. Art  needs  no  apologist,  and  our  great 


184  IX   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

literary  artist,  using  his  chosen  material  after 
his  chosen  fashion,  heedless  alike  of  new  the- 
ories and  of  ancient  prejudices,  gave  to  the 
world  a  masterpiece  of  fiction  which  the  world 
was  not  too  stupid  to  hold  dear. 

The  pleasure  of  imparting  opinions  in  print 
is  by  no  means  confined  to  professionals,  to 
people  who  are  assumed  to  know  something 
about  a  subject  because  they  have  been  more 
or  less  occupied  with  it  for  years.  On  the 
contrary,  the  most  lively  and  spirited  discus- 
sions are  those  to  which  the  general  public 
lends  a  willing  hand.  Almost  any  topic  will 
serve  to  arouse  the  argumentative  zeal  of  the 
average  reader,  who  rushes  to  the  fray  with 
that  joyous  alacrity  which  is  so  exhilarating  to 
the  peaceful  looker-on.  The  disputed  pronun- 
ciation or  spelling  of  a  word,  if  ventilated  with 
spirit  in  a  literary  journal,  will  call  forth 
dozens  of  letters,  all  written  in  the  most  seri- 
ous and  urgent  manner,  and  all  apparently 
emanating  from  people  of  rigorous  views  and 
limitless  leisure.  If  a  letter  here  or  there  — 
a  ?<,  perhaps,  or  an  /  —  can  only  be  elevated 
to  the  dignity  of  a  national  issue,  then  the 
combatants  don  their  coats  of  mail,  unfurl  their 


OPL\W.\S.  185 

countries'  flags,  and  wrangle  merrily  and  oft 
to  the  sounds  of  martial  music.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  subject  of  contention  be  a 
somewhat  obvious  statement,  as,  for  example, 
that  the  work  of  women  in  art,  science,  and. 
literature  is  inferior  to  the  work  of  men,  it  is 
amazing  and  gratifying  to  see  the  number  of 
disputants  who  promptly  prepare  to  deny  the 
undeniable,  and  lead  a  forlorn  hope  to  failure. 
The  impassive  reader  who  first  encounters  a 
remark  of  this  order  is  apt  to  ask  himself  if 
it  be  worth  while  to  state  so  explicitly  what 
everybody  already  knows ;  and  behold !  a 
week  has  not  passed  over  his  head  before  a 
dozen  angry  protestations  are  hurled  into 
print.  These  meet  with  sarcastic  rejoinders. 
The  editor  of  the  journal,  who  is  naturally 
pleased  to  secure  copy  on  such  easy  terms, 
adroitly  stirs  up  slumbering  sentiment ;  and 
time,  temper,  and  ink  are  wasted  without  stint 
by  people  who  are  the  only  converts  of  their 
own  eloquence.  "  Embrace  not  the  blind  side 
of  opinions,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  who, 
born  in  a  contentious  age,  with  u  no  genius  to 
disputes,"  preached  mellifluously  of  the  joys 
of  toleration,  and  of  the  discomforts  of  inordi- 
nate zeal. 


186  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

Not  very  long  ago,  I  was  asked  by  a 
sprightly  little  paper  to  please  say  in  its  col- 
umns whether  I  thought  new  books  or  old 
books  better  worth  the  reading.  It  was  the 
kind  of  question  which  an  ordinary  lifetime 
spent  in  hard  study  would  barely  enable  one 
to  answer ;  but  I  found,  on  examining  some 
back  numbers  of  the  journal,  that  it  had  been 
answered  a  great  many  times  already,  and  ap- 
parently without  the  smallest  hesitation.  Cor- 
respondents had  come  forward  to  overturn  our 
ancient  idols,  with  no  sense  of  insecurity  or 
misgiving.  One  breezy  reformer  from  Ne- 
braska sturdily  maintained  that  Mrs.  Hodgson 
Burnett  wrote  much  better  stories  than  did  Jane 
Austen ;  while  another  intrepid  person,  a  Vir- 
ginian, pronounced  k*  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field  "  "  dull  and  namby  -  pamby,"  declaring 
that  "  one  half  the  reading  world  would 
agree  with  him  if  they  dared."  Perhaps  they 
would,  —  who  knows  ?  —  but  it  is  a  privilege 
of  that  half  of  the  reading  world  to  be  silent 
on  the  subject.  Simple  preference  is  a  good 
and  sufficient  motive  in  determining  one's 
choice  of  books,  but  it  docs  not  warrant  a  reader 
in  conferring  his  impressions  upon  the  world. 


or/xioxs.  187 

Evren  the  involuntary  humor  of  such  disclos- 
ures cannot  win  them  forgiveness;  for  the  ten- 
dency to  permit  the  individual  spirit  to  run 
amuck  through  criticism  is  resulting1  in  a  lower 
standard  of  correctness.  "  The  true  value  of 
souls,"  says  Mr.  Pater,  "  is  in  proportion  to 
what  they  can  admire  ;  "  and  the  popular  no- 
tion that  everything  is  a  matter  of  opinion, 
and  that  one  opinion  is  pretty  nearly  as  good 
as  another,  is  immeasurably  hurtful  to  that 
higher  law  by  which  we  seek  to  rise  steadily 
to  an  appreciation  of  whatever  is  best  in  the 
world.  Nor  can  we  acquit  our  modern  critics 
of  fostering  this  self-assertive  ignorance,  when 
they  so  lightly  ignore  those  indestructible 
standards  by  which  alone  we  are  able  to  meas- 
ure the  difference  between  big  and  little 
things.  It  seems  a  clever  and  a  daring  feat 
to  set  up  models  of  our  own  ;  but  it  is  in  real- 
ity much  easier  than  toiling  after  the  old  un- 
approachable models  of  our  forefathers.  The 
originality  which  dispenses  so  blithely  with 
the  past  is  powerless  to  give  us  a  correct  esti- 
mate of  anything  that  we  enjoy  in  the  present. 
It  is  but  a  short  step  from  the  offhand  opin- 
ions of  scientific  or  literary  men  to  the  offhand 


188  JN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

opinions  of  the  crowd.  When  the  novelists 
had  finished  telling  us,  in  the  newspapers  and 
magazines,  what  they  thought  about  one  an- 
other, and  especially  what  they  thought  about 
themselves,  it  then  became  the  turn  of  novel- 
readers  to  tell  us  what  they  thought  about 
fiction.  This  sudden  invasion  of  the  Vandals 
left  to  the  novelists  but  one  resource,  but  one 
undisputed  privilege.  They  could  permit  us 
to  know  and  they  have  permitted  us  to  know 
just  how  they  came  to  write  their  books ;  in 
what  moments  of  inspiration,  under  what  be- 
nign influences,  they  gave  to  the  world  those 
priceless  pages. 

''  Sing,  God  of  Love,  and  tell  me  in  what  dearth 
Thrice-gifted  Snevellicci  came  on  earth !  " 

After  which,  unless  the  unsilenced  public 
comes  forward  to  say  just  how  and  when  and 
where  they  read  the  volumes,  they  must  ac- 
knowledge themselves  routed  from  the  field. 

La  vie  dc,  parade  has  reached  its  utmost 
license  when  a  Prime  Minister  of  England 
is  asked  to  tell  the  world  —  after  the  manner 
of  old  Father  William — how  he  has  kept  so 
hale  ;  when  the  Prince  of  Wales  is  requested 
to  furnish  a  list  of  readable  books ;  when  an 


OPLVWXS.  189 

eminent  clergyman  is  bidden  to  reveal  to  us 
why  lie  has  never  been  ill ;  when  the  wife  of 
the  President  of  the  United  States  is  ques- 
tioned as  to  how  she  cooks  her  Thanksgiving 
dinner  ;  when  married  women  in  private  life 
draw  aside  the  domestic  veil  to  tell  us  how 
they  have  brought  up  their  daughters,  and  un- 
married women  betray  to  us  the  secret  of 
their  social  success.  Add  to  these  sources  of 
information  the  opinions  of  poets  upon  educa- 
tion, and  of  educators  upon  poetry  ;  of  church- 
men upon  politics,  and  of  politicians  upon  the 
church  ;  of  journalists  upon  art,  and  of  artists 
upon  journalism  ;  and  we  must  in  all  sincerity 
acknowledge  that  this  is  an  enlightened  age. 
"The  voice  of  the  great  multitude,"  to  quote 
from  a  popular  agitator,  ''  rings  in  our  startled 
ears :  "  and  its  eloquence  is  many-sided  and 
discursive.  Albertus  Magnus,  it  is  said,  once 
made  a  head  which  talked.  That  was  an  ex- 
ceedingly clever  thing  for  him  to  do.  But 
the  head  was  so  delighted  with  its  accomplish- 
ment that  it  talked  all  the  time.  Whereupon, 
tradition  holds,  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  grew  im- 
patient, and  broke  it  into  pieces.  St.  Thomas 
was  a  scholar,  a  philosopher,  and  a  saint. 


THE   CHILDREN'S  AGE. 

IP  adults  are  disposed  to  doubt  their  own 
decreasing  significance,  and  the  increasing  as- 
cendency of  children,  they  may  learn  a  lesson 
in  humility  from  the  popular  literature  of  the 
day,  as  well  as  from  social  and  domestic  life. 
The  older  novelists  were  so  little  impressed  by 
the  ethical  or  artistic  consequence  of  childhood 
that  they  gave  it  scant  notice  in  their  pages. 
Scott,  save  for  a  few  passages  here  and  there, 
as  in  "The  Abbot"  and  "  Peveril  of  the 
Peak,"  ignores  it  altogether.  Miss  Austen  is 
reticent  on  the  subject,  and,  when  she  does 
speak,  manifests  a  painful  lack  of  enthusiasm. 
Mary  Musgrave's  troublesome  little  boys  and 
Lady  Middleton's  troublesome  little  girl  seem 
to  be  introduced  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
show  how  tiresome  and  exasperating  they  can 
be.  Fanny  Price's  pathetic  childhood  is  hur- 
ried over  as  swiftly  as  possible,  and  her  infant 
emotions  furnish  no  food  for  speculation  or 
analysis.  Saddest  of  all,  Margaret  Dashwood 


777 K    CHILDREN'S   AGE.  191 

is  ignored  as  completely  as  if  she  had  not 
reached  the  interesting  age  of  thirteen.  "  A 
good-humored,  well-disposed  girl,"  this  is  all 
the  description  vouchsafed  her  ;  after  which,  in 
the  absence  of  further  information,  we  forget 
her  existence  entirely,  until  we  are  reminded 
in  the  last  chapter  that  she  has  "  reached  an 
age  highly  suitable  for  dancing,  and  not 
very  ineligible  for  being  supposed  to  have  a 
lover."  In  other  words,  she  is  now  ready  for 
treatment  at  the  novelist's  hands  ;  only,  un- 
happily, the  story  is  told,  the  final  page  has 
been  turned,  and  her  chances  are  over  forever. 
I  well  remember  my  disappointment,  as  a 
child,  at  being  able  to  find  so  little  about 
children  in  the  old-fashioned  novels  on  our 
bookshelves.  Trollope  was  particularly  try- 
ing, because  there  were  illustrations  which 
seemed  to  promise  what  I  wanted,  and  which 
were  wholly  illusive  in  their  character.  Posy 
and  her  grandfather  playing  cat's-cradle, 
Edith  Grantly  sitting  on  old  Mr.  Harding's 
knee,  poor  little  Louey  Trevelyan  furtively 
watching  his  unhappy  parents,  —  I  used  to 
read  all  around  these  pictures  in  the  hope  of 
learning  more  about  the  children  so  portrayed. 


192  L\   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

But  they  never  said  or  did  anything  to  awaken 
my  interest,  or  played  any  but  purely  passive 
parts  in  the  long  histories  of  their  grown-up 
relatives.  I  had  so  few  books  of  my  own  that 
I  was  compelled  to  forage  for  entertainment 
wherever  I  could  find  it,  dipping  experiment- 
ally into  the  most  unpromising  sources,  and  re- 
tiring discomfited  from  the  search.  "  Vivian 
Grey  "  I  began  several  times  with  enthusiasm. 
The  exploits  of  the  hero  at  school  amazed 
and  thrilled  me  —  as  well  they  might ;  but  I 
never  comprehensively  grasped  his  social  and 
political  career.  Little  Rawdon  Crawley  and 
that  small,  insufferable  George  Osborne,  were 
chance  acquaintances,  introduced  through  the 
medium  of  the  illustrations  ;  but  my  real 
friends  were  the  Tullivers  and  David  Copper- 
field,  before  he  went  to  that  stupid  school  of 
Dr.  Strong's  at  Canterbury,  and  lost  all  sem- 
blance of  his  old  childish  self.  It  was  not 
possible  to  grow  deeply  attached  to  Oliver 
Twist.  He  was  a  lifeless  sort  of  boy,  despite 
the  author's  assurances  to  the  contrary  ;  and, 
though  the  most  wonderful  things  were  al- 
ways happening  to  him,  it  never  seemed  to  me 
that  he  lived  up  to  his  interesting  surround- 


TllK    ClllLDliKX'X    AGE.  193 

ings.  Tie  would  have  done  very  well  for  a 
quiet  life,  but  was  sadly  unsuited  to  that  lively 
atmosphere  of  burglary  and  housebreaking. 
"  Aladdin,"  says  Mr.  Froude,  "  remained  a 
poor  creature,  for  all  his  genii.1'  As  for  Nell, 
I  doubt  if  it  would  ever  occur  to  a  small  inno- 
cent reader  to  think  of  her  as  a  child  at  all. 
I  was  far  from  critical  in  those  early  days,  and 
much  disposed  to  agree  with  Lamb's  amiable 
friend  that  all  books  must  necessarily  be  good 
books.  Nell  was,  in  my  eyes,  a  miracle  of 
courage  and  capacity,  a  creature  to  be  believed 
in  implicitly,  to  be  revered  and  pitied ;  but  she 
was  not  a  little  girl.  I  was  a  little  girl  myself, 
and  I  knew  the  difference. 

It  was  Dickens  who  first  gave  children  their 
prestige  in  fiction.  Jeffrey,  we  are  assured, 
shed  tears  over  Nell ;  and  Bret  Harte,  whose 
own  pathos  is  so  profoundly  touching,  de- 
scribes for  us  the  rude  and  haggard  miners  fol- 
lowing her  fortunes  with  breathless  sympathy  : 

'•  While  the  whole  camp  with  '  Nell '  on  English  meadows, 
Wandered  and  lost  their  way." 

At  present  we  are  spared  the  heartrending 
childish  deathbeds  which  Dickens  made  so 
painfully  popular,  because  dying  in  novels 


194  IN   T1IE   DOZY   II OURS. 

has  rather  gone  out  of  style.  The  young 
people  live,  and  thrive,  and  wax  scornful, 
and  fill  up  chapter  after  chapter,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  meritorious  adults.  What  a  con- 
trast between  the  incidental,  almost  furtive 
manner  in  which  Henry  Kingsley  introduces 
his  delightful  children  into  "  Ravenshoe,"  and 
the  profound  assurance  with  which  Sarah 
Grand  devotes  seventy  pages  to  a  minute 
description  of  the  pranks  of  the  Heavenly 
Twins.  Readers  of  the  earlier  novel  used 
to  feel  they  would  like  to  know  a  little  — 
just  a  little  more  of  Gus,  and  Flora,  and 
Archy,  and  the  patient  nursery  cat  who  was 
quite  accustomed  to  being  held  upside  down, 
and  who  went  out  "•  a-walking  on  the  leads," 
when  she  was  needed  to  accompany  her  young 
master  to  bed.  Readers  of  "  The  Heavenly 
Twins  "  begin  by  being  amused,  then  grow 
aghast,  and  conclude  by  wondering  why  the 
wretched  relatives  of  those  irrepressible  chil- 
dren were  not  driven  to  some  such  expedient 
as  that  proposed  by  a  choleric  old  gentleman 
of  my  acquaintance  to  the  doting  mother  of  an 
only  son.  "  Put  him  in  a  hogshead,  madam, 
and  let  him  breathe  through  the  bunghole ! ' 


THE    CIIILURHX'X    AUK.  195 

Two  vastly  different  types  of  infant  preco- 
city have  been  recently  given  to  the  world  by 
Mrs.  Deland  and  Mrs.  Hodgson  Burnett,  the 
only  point  of  resemblance  between  their  re- 
spective authors  being  the  conviction  which 
they  share  in  common  that  children  are  prob- 
lems which  cannot  be  too  minutely  studied, 
and  that  we  cannot  devote  too  much  time  or 
attention  to  their  scrutiny.  Mrs.  Deland, 
with  less  humor  and  a  firmer  touch,  draws  for 
us  in  "  The  Story  of  a  Child,"  a  sensitive, 
highly  strung,  morbid  and  imaginative  little 
girl,  who  seems  born  to  give  the  lie  to  Scho- 
penhauer's comfortable  verdict,  that  "  the 
keenest  sorrows  and  the  keenest  joys  are  not  for 
women  to  feel."  Ellen  Dale  suffers  as  only  a 
self-centred  nature  can.  She  thinks  about  her 
self  so  much  that  her  poor  little  head  is  turned 
with  fancied  shortcomings  and  imaginary 
wrongs.  Most  children  have  these  sombre 
moods  now  and  again.  They  don't  overcome 
them  :  they  forget  them,  which  is  a  better  and 
healthier  thing  to  do.  But  Ellen's  humors 
are  analyzed  with  a  good  deal  of  seriousness 
and  sympathy.  When  she  is  not  "agonized  " 
over  her  tiny  faults,  she  is  "  tasting  sin  with 


196  /,V   TlIE   DOZY   IWUliS. 

the  subtle  epicurean  delight  of  the  artistic 
temperament ;  "  a  passage  which  may  be  aptly 
compared  with  George  Eliot's  tamer  descrip- 
tion of  Lucy  Deane  trotting  by  her  cousin 
Tom's  side,  "  timidly  enjoying  the  rare  treat 
of  doing  something  naughty."  The  sensations 
are  practically  the  same,  the  methods  of  delin- 
eating them  different. 

Mrs.  Burnett,  on  the  other  hand,  while  in- 
dulging us  unstintedly  in  reminiscences  of 
her  own  childhood,  is  disposed  to  paint  the 
picture  in  cheerful,  not  to  say  roseate  colors. 
*'  The  One  I  Knew  the  Best  of  All  "  was  evi- 
dently a  very  good,  and  clever,  and  pretty,  and 
well-dressed  little  girl,  who  played  her  part 
with  amiability  and  decorum  in  all  the  small 
vicissitudes  common  to  infant  years.  No 
other  children  being  permitted  to  enter  the 
narrative,  except  as  lay  figures,  our  atten- 
tion is  never  diverted  from  the  small  crea- 
ture with  the  curls,  who  studies  her  geogra- 
phy, and  eats  her  pudding,  and  walks  in 
the  Square,  and  dances  occasionally  at  par- 
ties, and  behaves  herself  invariably  as  a  nice 
little  girl  should.  It  is  reassuring,  after 
reading  the  youthful  recollections  of  Sir 


THE    CHILDREN'S   AGE.  197 

Richard  Burton,  with  their  irreverent  and  ap- 
palling candor,  to  be  gently  consoled  by  Mrs. 
Burnett,  and  to  know  with  certainty  that  she 
really  was  such  a  delightful  and  charming 
child. 

For  Sir  Richard,  following  the  fashion  of 
the  day,  has  left  us  a  spirited  record  of  his 
early  years,  and  they  furnish  scant  food  for 
edification.  There  was  a  time  when  unfledged 
vices,  like  unfledged  virtues,  were  ignored  by 
the  biographer,  and  forgotten  even  by  the  more 
conscientious  writer,  who  compiled  his  own 
memoirs.  Scott  s  account  of  his  boyhood  is 
graphic,  but  all  too  brief.  Boswell,  the  dif- 
fuse, speeds  over  Johnson's  tender  youth  with 
some  not  very  commendatory  remarks  about 
his  "  dismal  inertness  of  disposition."  Gib- 
bon, indeed,  awakens  our  expectations  with 
this  solemn  and  stately  sentence  :  — 

"•  My  lot  might  have  been  that  of  a  slave,  a 
savage,  or  a  peasant ;  nor  can  I  reflect  with- 
out pleasure  on  the  bounty  of  nature  which 
cast  my  birth  in  a  free  and  civilized  country, 
in  an  age  of  science  and  philosophy,  in  a  fam- 
ily of  honorable  rank,  and  decently  endowed 
with  the  ji'ifts  of  fortune/' 


198  JN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

After  which  majestic  preamble,  we  are  sur- 
prised to  see  how  little  interest  he  takes  in  his 
own  sickly  and  studious  childhood,  and  how 
disinclined  he  is  to  say  complimentary  things 
about  his  own  precocity.  He  writes  without 
enthusiasm :  — 

"  For  myself  I  must  be  content  with  a  very 
small  share  of  the  civil  and  literary  fruits  of 
a  public  school." 

Burton,  unhappily,  had  no  share  at  all,  and 
the  loss  of  training  and  discipline  told  heavily 
on  him  all  his  life.  His  lawless  and  wandering 
childhood,  so  full  of  incident  and  so  destitute 
of  charm,  is  described  with  uncompromising 
veracity  in  Lady  Burton's  portly  volumes, 
lie  was  as  far  removed  from  the  virtues  of 
Lord  Fauntleroy  as  from  the  brilliant  and 
elaborate  naughtiness  of  the  Heavenly  Twins ; 
but  he  has  the  advantage  over  all  these  little 
people  in  being  so  convincingly  real.  He 
fought  until  he  was  beaten  u  as  thin  as  a  shot- 
ten  herring."  He  knocked  down  his  nurse  — 
with  the  help  of  his  brother  and  sister  —  and 
jumped  on  her.  He  hid  behind  the  curtains 
and  jeered  at  his  grandmother's  French.  He 
was  not  pretty,  and  he  was  not  picturesque. 


THE    CHILD  REX'S    AGE.  109 

"  A  piece  of  yellow  nankin  would  be  bought 
to  dress  the  whole  family,  like  three  sticks  of 
barley  sugar." 

He  was  not  amiable,  and  he  was  not  polite, 
and  he  was  not  a  safe  child  on  whom  to  try 
experiments  of  the  "  Harry  and  Lucy  "  order, 
as  the  following  anecdote  proves : 

u  By  way  of  a  wholesome  and  moral  lesson 
of  self-command  and  self-denial,  our  mother 
took  us  past  Madame  Fisterre's  (the  pastry 
cook's)  windows,  and  bade  us  look  at  all  the 
good  things  ;  whereupon  we  fixed  our  ardent 
affections  on  a  tray  of  apple  puffs.  Then  she 
said  :  '  Xow,  my  dears,  let  us  go  away ;  it  is 
so  good  for  little  children  to  restrain  them- 
selves.' Upon  this  we  three  devilets  turned 
flashing  eyes  and  burning  cheeks  on  our  mor- 
alizing mother,  broke  the  window  with  our 
fists,  clawed  out  the  tray  of  apple  puffs,  and 
bolted,  leaving  poor  Mother  a  sadder  and  a 
wiser  woman,  to  pay  the  damages  of  her  law- 
less brood's  proceedings." 

It  is  the  children's  age  when  such  a  story 
—  and  many  more  like  it  —  are  gleefully  nar- 
rated and  are  gladly  read.  Yet  if  we  must 
exchange  the  old-time  reticence  for  unreserved 


200  7  A'    THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

disclosures,  if  we  must  hear  all  about  an  au 
thor's  infancy  from  his  teething  to  his  first 
breeches,  and  from  his  A  B  C's  to  his  Greek 
and  Latin,  it  is  better  to  have  him  presented 
to  us  with  such  unqualified  veracity.  He  is 
not  attractive  when  seen  in  this  strong  light, 
but  he  is  very  much  alive. 


A  FORGOTTEN  POET. 

THERE  has  been  a  vast  deal  of  moralizing 
on  the  brevity  of  fame  ever  since  that  far-away 
day  when  mankind  became  sufficiently  so- 
phisticated to  covet  posthumous  distinction. 
Yet,  in  reality,  it  is  not  so  surprising  that  peo- 
ple should  be  forgotten  as  that  they  should 
be  remembered,  and  remembered  often  for  the 
sake  of  one  swift,  brave  deed  that  cost  no 
effort,  or  of  a  few  lovely  words  thrown  to  the 
world  in  a  moment  of  unconscious  inspiration, 
when  the  writer  little  dreamed  he  was  forging 
a  chain  strong  enough  to  link  him  with  the 
future.  Occasionally,  too,  a  species  of  immor- 
tality is  conferred  upon  respectable  mediocrity 
by  the  affection  or  the  abhorrence  it  excites. 
The  men  whom  Pope  rhymed  about  because 
he  hated  them,  the  men  to  whom  Lamb  wrote 
so  delightfully  because  he  loved  them,  all  live 
for  us  in  the  indestructible  land  of  letters. 
It  would  be  a  hard  matter  to  reckon  up  the 
sum  of  indebtedness  which  is  thus  innocently 


202  IN    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

incurred  by  those  who  have  no  coin  of  their 
own  for  payment. 

•  Not  long  ago  a  writer  of  distinction  was 
idling  his  way  pleasantly  through  a  volume  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  poetry,  when  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  quotation  which  stood  at 
the  head  of  that  rather  nebulous  effusion, 
"A  Rhapsody  of  Life's  Progress."  It  was 
but  a  single  line, 

"Fill  all  the  stops  of  life  with  tuneful  breath," 

and  it  was  accredited  to  Cornelius  Mathews, 
author  of  "  Poems  on  Man."  A  foot-note,  — 
people  were  more  generous  in  the  matter  of 
foot-notes  forty  years  ago  than  now  —  gave 
the  additional  and  somewhat  startling  infor- 
mation that  "  Poems  on  Man  "  was  "  a  small 
volume  by  an  American  poet,  as  remarkable 
in  thought  and  manner  for  a  vital  sinewy  vig- 
our as  the  right  arm  of  Pathfinder."  This 
was  stout  praise.  "  The  right  arm  of  Path- 
finder." We  all  know  what  sinewy  vigor  was 
there  ;  but  of  Cornelius  Mathews,  it  would 
seem,  no  man  knew  anything  at  all.  Yet  his 
poems  had  traveled  far  when  they  lay  in  Mrs. 
Browning's  path,  and  of  her  admiration  for 


A    FORGOTTEN  POET.  203 

them  she  had  left  us  this  unstinted  proof. 
Moreover  the  one  line, 

"  Fill  all  the  stops  of  life  with  tuneful  breath  " 

had  in  it  enough  of  character  and  sweetness 
to  provoke  an  intelligent  curiosity.  As  a 
scholar  and  a  man  of  letters,  the  reader  felt 
his  interest  awakened.  He  replaced  Mrs. 
Browning  on  the  book  shelf,  and  made  up  his 
mind  with  characteristic  distinctness  he  would 
read  the  poems  of  this  forgotten  American 
author. 

It  was  not  an  easy  resolution  to  keep.  A 
confident  appeal  to  the  public  libraries  of  New 
York  and  Philadelphia  brought  to  light  the 
astonishing  fact  that  no  copy  of  the  "Poems 
on  Man''  was  to  be  found  within  their  walls. 
The  work  had  been  published  in  several  edi- 
tions by  Harper  and  Brothers  between  the 
years  1838  and  1843  ;  but  no  forlorn  and  dust 
covered  volume  still  lingered  on  their  shelves. 
The  firm,  when  interrogated,  knew  no  more 
about  Cornelius  Mathews  than  did  the  rest  of 
the  reading  world.  The  next  step  was  to  ad- 
vertise for  a  second-hand  copy  ;  but  for  a  long 
while  it  seemed  as  though  even  second-hand 


204  JN    THE    DOZY  HOURS. 

copies  had  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the 
continent.  The  book  was  so  exceedingly  rare 
that  it  must  have  been  a  universal  favorite  for 
the  lighting  of  household  fires.  In  the  end, 
however,  persevering  effort  was  crowned  with 
its  inevitable  success.  "  The  works  of  Cor- 
nelius Mathews  "  were  unearthed  from  some 
dim  corner  of  obscurity,  and  suffered  to  see 
the  genial  light  of  day. 

They  comprise  a  great  deal  of  prose  and  a 
very  little  verse,  all  bound  up  together,  after 
the  thrifty  fashion  of  our  fathers,  in  one  portly 
volume,  with  dull  crimson  sides,  and  double 
columns  of  distressingly  fine  print.  The 
"  Poems  on  Man  "  are  but  nineteen  in  number, 
and  were  originally  published  in  a  separate 
pamphlet.  They  are  arranged  systematically, 
and  are  designed  to  do  honor  to  American 
citizenship  under  its  most  sober  and  common- 
place aspect.  The  author  is  in  no  way  dis- 
couraged by  the  grayness  of  his  atmosphere, 
nor  by  the  unheroic  material  with  which  he 
has  to  deal.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  at  home 
with  farmers,  and  mechanics,  and  merchants  ; 
and  ill  at  ease  with  painters  and  soldiers,  to 
whom  it  must  be  confessed  he  preaches  a  littlo 


.1    FORGOTTEN   1'OKT.  L'Oo 

too  palpably.  *It  is  painful  to  consider  what 
bad  advice  lie  gives  to  the  sculptor  in  this  one 
vicious  line, 

"  Think  not  too  much  what  other  climes  have  done." 

Yet,  in  truth,  he  is  neither  blind  to  the  past, 
nor  unduly  elated  with  the  present.  He  feels 
the  splendid  possibilities  of  a  young  nation 
with  all  its  life  before  it ;  and  earnestly,  and 
with  dignity,  he  pleads  for  the  development  of 
character,  and  for  a  higher  system  of  morality. 
If  his  verse  be  uneven  and  mechanical,  and  the 
sinewy  vigor  of  Pathfinder  be  not  so  apparent 
as  might  have  been  reasonably  expected,  I  can 
still  understand  how  these  simple  and  manly 
sentiments  should  have  awakened  the  enthu- 
siasm of  Mrs.  Browning,  who  was  herself  no 
student  of  form,  and  who  sincerely  believed 
that  poetry  was  a  serious  pursuit  designed  for 
the  improvement  of  mankind. 

In  his  narrower  fashion,  Mr.  Cornelius  Ma- 
thews  shared  this  pious  creed,  and  strove, 
within  the  limits  of  his  meagre  art,  to  awaken 
in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  a  patriotism 
sober  and  sincere.  He  calls  on  the  journalist 
to  tell  the  truth,  on  the  artisan  to  respect  the 


206  IN   THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

interests  of  his  employer,  on  the  merchant  to 
cherish  an  old-time  honor  and  honesty,  on  the 
politician  to  efface  himself  for  the  good  of  his 
constituency. 

"  Accursed  who  on  the  Mount  of  Rulers  sits, 

Nor  gains  some  glimpses  of  a  fairer  day ; 
Who  knows  not  there,  what  there  his  soul  befits,  — 

Thoughts  that  leap  up  and  kindle  far  away 
The  coming  time !     Who  rather  dulls  the  ear 

With  brawling  discord  and  a  cloud  of  words ; 
Owning  no  hopeful  object,  far  or  near, 

Save  what  the  universal  self  affords." 

This  is  not  heroic  verse,  but  it  shows  an  heroic 
temper.  The  writer  has  evidently  some  know- 
ledge of  things  as  they  are,  and  some  faith  in 
things  as  they  ought  to  be,  and  these  twin 
sources  of  grace  save  him  from  bombast  and 
from  cynicism.  Never  in  all  the  earnest  and 
appealing  lines  does  he  indulge  himself  or  his 
readers  in  that  exultant  self-glorification  which 
is  so  gratifying  and  so  inexpensive.  His  pa- 
triotism is  not  of  the  shouting  and  hat-flour- 
ishing order,  but  has  its  roots  in  an  anxious 
and  loving  regard  for  the  welfare  of  his  father- 
land. Occasionally  he  strikes  a  poetic  note, 
and  has  moments  of  brief  but  genuine  inspira- 
tion. 


A    FORGOTTEN  POET.  207 

"  The  elder  forms,  the  antique  mighty  faces," 

which  lend  their  calm  and  shadowy  presence 
to  the  farmer's  toil,  bring  with  them  swift 
glimpses  of  a  strong  pastoral  world.  Not  a 
blithe  world  by  any  means.  No  Pan  pipes  in 
the  rushes.  No  shaggy  herdsmen  sing  in  rude 
mirthful  harmony.  No  sun-burnt  girls  laugh 
in  the  harvest-field.  Rusticity  has  lost  its  na- 
tive grace,  and  the  cares  of  earth  sit  at  the 
fireside  of  the  husbandman.  Yet  to  him  be- 
long moments  of  deep  content,  and  to  his  clean 
and  arduous  life  are  given  pleasures  which  the 
artisan  has  never  known. 

"  Better  to  watch  the  live-long1  day 

The  clouds  that  come  and  go, 
Wearying  the  heaven  they  idle  through, 

And  fretting  out  its  everlasting  blue. 
Though  sadness  on  the  woods  may  often  lie, 

And  wither  to  a  waste  the  meadowy  land, 
Pure  blows  the  air,  and  purer  shines  the  sky, 

For  nearer  always  to  Heaven's  gate  you  stand." 

The  most  curious  characteristic  of  Mr.  Ma- 
thew's  work  is  the  easy  and  absolute  fashion  in 
which  it  ignores  the  influence,  and  indeed  the 
very  existence  of  woman.  The  word  "  man  " 
must  here  be  taken  in  its  literal  significance. 
It  is  not  of  the  human  race  that  the  author 


208  7.V   THE   DOZY    HOURS. 

sings,  but  of  one  half  of  it  alone.  No  trouble- 
some flutter  of  petticoats  disturbs  his  serene 
meditations  ;  no  echo  of  passion  haunts  his 
placid  verse.  Even  in  his  opening  stanzas 
on  "  The  Child,"  there  is  no  allusion  to  any 
mother.  The  infant  appears  to  have  come 
into  life  after  the  fashion  of  Pallas  Athene, 
and  upon  the  father  only  depends  its  future 
weal  or  woe.  The  teacher  apparently  confines 
his  labors  to  little  boys ;  the  preacher  has 
a  congregation  of  men  ;  the  reformer,  the 
scholar,  the  citizen,  the  friend,  all  dwell  in 
a  cool  masculine  world,  where  the  seductive 
voice  of  womankind  never  insinuates  itself  to 
the  endangering  of  sober  and  sensible  beha- 
vior. This  enforced  absence  of  "  The  Eternal 
Feminine  "  is  more  striking  when  we  approach 
the  realms  of  art.  Does  the  painter  desire 
subjects  for  his  brush  ? 

' '  The  mountain  and  the  sea,  the  setting  sun, 
The  storm,  the  face  of  men,  and  the  calm  moon," 

are  considered  amply  sufficient  for  his  needs. 
Does  the  sculptor  ask  for  models  ?  They  are 
presented  him  in  generous  abundance. 

"  Crowned  heroes  of  the  early  age. 
Chieftain  and  soldier,  senator  and  sage  ; 


A    FORGOTTEN  POET.  209 

The  tawny  ancient  of  the  warrior  race, 
With  dusky  limb  and  kindling1  face." 

Or,  should  he  prefer  less  conventional  types  — 

"  Colossal  and  resigned,  the  gloomy  gods 
Eying  at  large  their  lost  abodes, 
Towering  and  swart,  and  knit  in  every  limb  ; 
With  brows  on  which  the  tempest  lives, 
With  eyes  wherein  the  past  survives, 
Gloomy,  and  battailous,  and  grim." 

With  all  these  legitimate  subjects  at  his  com- 
mand, why  indeed  should  the  artist  turn  aside 
after  that  beguiling1  beauty  which  Eve  saw 
reflected  in  the  clear  waters  of  Paradise,  and 
which  she  loved  with  unconscious  vanity  or 
ever  Adam  met  her  amorous  gaze.  Only  to 
the  poet  is  permitted  the  smallest  glimpse  into 
the  feminine  world.  In  one  brief  half-line, 
Mr.  Mathews  coldly  and  chastely  allows  that 
u  young  Love  "  may  whisper  something  —  we 
are  not  told  what  —  which  is  best  fitted  for 
the  poetic  ear. 

What  an  old-fashioned  bundle  of  verse  it  is, 
though  written  a  bare  half  century  ago  !  How 
far  removed  fron  the  delicate  conceits,  the 
inarticulate  sadness  of  our  modern  versifiers  ; 
from  the  roiideaux,  and  ballades,  and  pastels, 


210  7.V    THE    DOZY   HOURS. 

and  impressions,  and  nocturnes,  with  which 
we  have  grown  bewilderingly  familiar.  How 
these  titles  alone  would  have  puzzled  the  sober 
citizen  who  wrote  the  "  Poems  on  Man,"  and 
who  endeavored  with  rigid  honesty  to  make 
his  meaning  as  clear  as  English  words  would 
permit.  There  is  no  more  chance  to  speculate 
over  these  stanzas  than  there  is  to  speculate 
over  Hogarth's  pictures.  What  is  meant  is 
told,  not  vividly,  but  with  steadfast  purpose, 
and  with  an  innocent  hope  that  it  may  be  of 
some  service  to  the  world.  The  world,  indeed, 
has  forgotten  the  message,  and  forgotten  the 
messenger  as  well.  Only  in  a  brief  foot-note 
of  Mrs.  Browning's  there  lingers  still  the  faint 
echo  of  what  once  was  life.  For  such  modest 
merit  there  is  no  second  sunrise ;  and  yet  a 
quiet  reader  may  find  an  hour  well  spent  in 
the  staid  company  of  these  serious  verses, 
whose  best  eloquence  is  their  sincerity. 


DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUES  have  come  back  into  fashion 
and  favor.  Editors  of  magazines  look  on 
them  kindly,  and  readers  of  magazines  accept 
them  as  philosophically  as  they  accept  any 
other  form  of  instruction  or  entertainment 
which  is  provided  in  their  monthly  bills  of 
fare.  Perhaps  Mr.  Oscar  Wilde  is  in  some 
measure  responsible  for  the  revival ;  perhaps 
it  may  be  traced  more  directly  to  the  serious 
and  stimulating  author  of  "  Baldwin,"  whose 
discussions  are  sufficiently  subtle  and  relent- 
less to  gratify  the  keenest  discontent.  The 
restless  reader  who  embarks  on  Vernon  Lee's 
portly  volume  of  conversations  half  wishes  he 
knew  people  who  could  discourse  in  that 
fashion,  and  is  half  grateful  that  he  does  n't. 
To  converse  for  hours  on  "  Doubts  and  Pes- 
simism," or  "  The  Value  of  the  Ideal,"  is  no 
trivial  test  of  endurance,  especially  when  one 
person  does  three-fourths  of  the  talking.  We 
hardly  know  which  to  admire  most :  Baldwin, 


212  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

who  elucidates  a  text  —  and  that  text,  evolu- 
tion —  for  six  pages  at  a  breath,  or  Michael, 
who  listens  and  "  smiles."  Even  the  occa- 
sional intermissions,  when  "  Baldwin1  shook 
his  head,"  or  "  they  took  a  turn  in  silence,"  or 
"  Carlo's  voice  trembled,"  or  "  Dorothy  pointed 
to  the  moors,"  do  little  to  relieve  the  general 
tension.  It  is  no  more  possible  to  support 
conversation  on  this  high  and  serious  level 
than  it  is  possible  to  nourish  it  on  Mr.  Wilde's 
brilliant  and  merciless  epigrams.  Those 
sparkling  dialogues  in  which  Cyril  might  be 
Vivian,  and  Vivian,  Cyril ;  or  Gilbert  might 
be  Ernest,  and  Ernest,  Gilbert,  because  all 
alike  are  Mr.  Wilde,  and  speak  with  his  voice 
alone,  dazzle  us  only  to  betray.  They  are  ad- 
mirable pieces  of  literary  workmanship  ;  they 
are  more  charming  and  witty  than  any  con- 
temporaneous essays.  But  if  we  will  place  by 
their  side  those  few  and  simple  pages  in  which 
Landor  permits  Montaigne  and  Joseph  Scali- 
ger  to  gossip  together  for  a  brief  half  hour  at 
breakfast  time,  we  will  better  understand  the 
value  of  an  element  which  Mr.  Wilde  excludes 
—  humanity,  with  all  its  priceless  sympathies 
and  foibles. 


DIALOGUES.  213 

Nevertheless,  it  is  not  Lander's  influence, 
by  any  means,  which  is  felt  in  the  random 
dialogues  of  to-day.  He  is  an  author  more 
praised  than  loved,  more  talked  about  than 
read,  and  his  unapproachable  delicacy  and 
distinction  are  far  removed  from  all  efforts  of 
facile  imitation.  Our  modern  "  imaginary 
conversations,"  whether  openly  satiric,  or 
gravely  instructive,  are  fashioned  on  other 
models.  They  have  a  faint  flavor  of  Lucian, 
a  subdued  and  decent  reflection  of  the  "  Noc- 
tes  ;  "  but  they  never  approach  the  classic  in- 
cisiveness  and  simplicity  of  Landor.  There 
is  a  delightfully  witty  dialogue  of  Mr.  Bar- 
rie's  called  "  Brought  Back  from  Elysium," 
in  which  the  ghosts  of  Scott,  Fielding,  Smol- 
lett, Dickens,  and  Thackeray  are  interviewed 
by  five  living  novelists,  who  kindly  undertake 
to  point  out  to  them  the  superiority  of  modern 
fiction.  In  this  admirable  little  satire,  every 
stroke  tells,  every  phantom  and  every  novelist 
speaks  in  character,  and  the  author,  with  dex- 
terous art,  fits  his  shafts  of  ridicule  into  the 
easy  play  of  a  possible  conversation.  Nothing 
can  be  finer  than  the  way  in  which  Scott's 
native  modesty,  of  which  not  even  Elysium 


214  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

and  the  Grove  of  Bay-trees  have  robbed  him, 
struggles  with  his  humorous  perception  of  the 
situation.  Fielding  is  disposed  to  be  angry, 
Thackeray  severe,  and  Dickens  infinitely 
amused.  But  Sir  Walter,  dragged  against 
his  will  into  this  unloved  and  alien  atmosphere, 
is  anxious  only  to  give  every  man  his  due. 
"  How  busy  you  must  have  been,  since  my 
day,"  he  observes  with  wistful  politeness, 
when  informed  that  the  stories  have  all  been 
told,  and  that  intellectual  men  and  women  no 
longer  care  to  prance  with  him  after  a  band 
of  archers,  or  follow  the  rude  and  barbarous 
fortunes  of  a  tournament. 

For  such  brief  bits  of  satire  the  dialogue 
affords  an  admirable  medium,  if  it  can  be 
handled  with  ease  and  force.  For  imparting 
opinions  upon  abstract  subjects  it  is  sure  to 
be  welcomed  by  coward  souls  who  think  that 
information  broken  up  into  little  bits  is  some- 
what easier  of  digestion.  I  am  myself  one  of 
those  weak-minded  people,  and  the  beguiling 
aspect  of  a  conversation,  which  generally  opens 
with  a  deceptive  air  of  sprightliness,  has  lured 
me  many  times  beyond  my  mental  depths. 
Nor  have  I  ever  been  able  to  understand  why 


DIALOGUES.  215 

Mr.  Ruskin's  publishers  should  have  entreated 
him,  after  the  appearance  of  "  Ethics  of  the 
Dust,"  to  "  write  no  more  in  dialogues."  To 
iny  niind,  that  charming  book  owes  its  quality 
of  readableness  to  the  form  in  which  it  is 
cast,  to  the  breathing-spells  afforded  by  the 
innocent  questions  and  comments  of  the  chil- 
dren. 

Mr.  W.  W.  Story  deals  more  gently  with  us 
than  any  other  imaginary  conversationalist. 
From  the  moment  that  "  He  and  She  "  meet 
unexpectedly  on  the  first  page  of  "  A  Poet's 
Portfolio,"  until  they  say  good-night  upon  the 
last,  they  talk  comprehensively  and  agreeably 
upon  topics  in  which  it  is  easy  to  feel  a  healthy 
human  interest.  They  drop  into  poetry  and 
climb  back  into  prose  with  a  good  deal  of 
facility  and  grace.  They  gossip  about  dogs 
and  spoiled  children ;  they  say  clever  and 
true  things  about  modern  criticism  ;  they  con- 
verse seriously,  but  not  solemnly,  about  life 
and  love  and  literature.  They  do  not  reso- 
lutely discuss  a  given  subject,  as  do  the 
Squire  and  Foster  in  Sir  Edward  Strachey's 
"  Talk  at  a  Country  House ;  "  but  sway  from 
text  to  text  after  the  frivolous  fashion  of  flesh 


216  JN   THE   DOZY   HOURS. 

and  blood ;  a  fashion  with  which  Mr.  Story 
has  made  us  all  familiar  in  his  earlier  volumes 
of  conversations.  He  is  a  veteran  master  of 
his  field ;  yet,  nevertheless,  the  Squire  and 
Foster  are  pleasant  companions  for  a  winter 
night.  I  like  to  feel  how  thoroughly  I  dis- 
agree with  both,  and  how  I  long  to  make  a 
discordant  element  in  their  friendly  talk  ;  and 
this  is  precisely  the  charm  of  dialogues  as  a 
medium  for  opinions  and  ideas.  Whether 
the  same  form  can  be  successfully  applied  to 
fiction  is  at  least  a  matter  of  doubt.  Laurence 
Alma  Tadema  has  essayed  to  use  it  in  "  An 
Undivined  Tragedy,"  and  the  result  is  hardly 
encouraging.  The  mother  tells  the  tale  in  a 
simple  and  touching  manner ;  and  the  daugh- 
ter's ejaculations  and  comments  are  of  no  use 
save  to  disturb  the  narrative.  It  is  hard 
enough  to  put  a  story  into  letters  where  the  re- 
lator  suffers  no  ill-timed  interruptions  ;  but  to 
embody  it  in  a  dialogue  —  which  is  at  the  same 
time  no  play  —  is  to  provide  a  needless  ele- 
ment of  confusion,  and  to  derange  the  bound- 
ary line  which  separates  fiction  from  the 
drama. 


A  CURIOUS   CONTENTION. 

WHAT  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  quarrel- 
someness lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  human 
heart !  Since  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
men  have  fought  and  wrangled  with  one  an- 
other ;  and  now  women  seem  to  find  their 
keenest  pleasure  and  exhilaration  in  fighting 
and  wrangling  with  men.  In  literature,  in 
journalism,  in  lectures,  in  discussions  of  every 
kind,  they  are  lifting  up  their  voices  with  an 
angry  cry  which  sounds  a  little  like  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  "  respectful  protestation  against 
Providence."  They  are  tired,  apparently,  of 
being  women,  and  are  disposed  to  lay  all  the 
blame  of  their  limitations  upon  men. 

There  is  nothing  very  healthful  in  such  an 
attitude,  nothing  dignified,  nothing  morally 
sustaining.  Life  is  not  easy  to  understand, 
but  it  seems  tolerably  clear  that  two  sexes 
were  put  upon  the  world  to  exist  harmoni- 
ously together,  and  to  do,  each  of  them,  a 
share  of  the  world's  work.  Their  relation  to 


218  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

one  another  has  been  a  matter  of  vital  interest 
from  the  beginning,  and  no  new  light  has 
dawned  suddenly  upon  this  century  or  this 
people.  The  shrill  contempt  heaped  by  a  few 
vehement  women  upon  men,  the  bitter  invec- 
tives, the  wholesale  denunciations  are  as  value 
less  and  as  much  to  be  regretted  as  the  old 
familiar  Billingsgate  which  once  expressed 
what  Mr.  Arnold  termed  "  the  current  com- 
pliments "  of  theology.  It  is  not  convincing  to 
hear  that  "  man  has  shrunk  to  his  real  pro- 
portions in  our  estimation,"  because  we  are 
still  in  the  dark  as  to  what  these  proportions 
are.  It  is  doubtless  true  that  he  is  "  imper- 
fect from  the  woman's  point  of  view,"  and 
imperfect,  let  us  conclude,  from  his  own  ;  but 
whether  we  have  attained  that  sure  superiority 
which  will  enable  us  to  work  out  his  salvation 
is  at  least  a  matter  for  dispute.  There  is  an 
ancient  and  unpopular  virtue  called  humility 
which  might  be  safely  recommended  to  a 
woman  capable  of  writing  such  a  passage  as 
this,  which  is  taken  from  an  article  published 
recently  in  the  "  North  American  Review." 
"  We  know  the  weakness  of  man,  and  will  be 
patient  with  him,  and  help  him  with  his  lesson. 


A    CURIOUS    CONTENTION.  219 

It  is  the  woman's  place  and  pride  and  pleasure 
to  teach  the  child,  and  man  morally  is  in  his 
iii fancy.  Woman  holds  out  a  strong  hand  to 
the  child-man,  and  insists,  but  with  infinite 
tenderness  and  pity,  upon  helping  him  along." 

The  fine  unconscious  humor  of  this  sugges- 
tion ought  to  put  everybody  in  a  good  temper, 
and  clear  the  air  with  a  hearty  laugh.  But 
the  desire  to  lead  other  people  rather  than  to 
control  one's  self,  though  not  often  so  naively 
stated,  is  by  no  means  new  in  the  history  of 
morals.  It  must  have  fallen  many  times  under 
the  observation  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  before  he 
wrote  this  gentle  word  of  reproof.  "  In  judg- 
ing others  a  man  usually  toileth  in  vain.  For 
the  most  part  he  is  mistaken,  and  he  easily 
sinneth.  But  in  judging  and  scrutinizing  him- 
self, he  always  laboreth  with  profit.'' 

And,  indeed,  though  it  be  true  that  in  civil- 
ized communities  a  larger  proportion  of  wo- 
men than  of  men  live  lives  of  cleanliness  and 
self-restraint,  yet  it  should  be  remembered  that 
the  great  leaders  of  spiritual  thought,  the 
great  reformers  of  minds  and  morals,  have  in- 
variably been  men.  All  that  is  best  in  word 
and  example,  all  that  is  upholding,  stimulating, 


220  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

purifying,  and  strenuous  has  been  the  gift  of 
these  faltering  creatures,  whom  we  are  now 
invited  to  take  in  hand,  and  conduct  with 
"  tenderness  and  pity "  on  their  paths.  It 
might  also  be  worth  while  to  remind  ourselves 
occasionally  that  although  we  women  may  be 
destined  to  do  the  work  of  the  future,  men 
have  done  the  work  of  the  past,  and  have 
struggled  not  altogether  in  vain,  for  the  phy- 
sical and  intellectual  welfare  of  the  world. 
This  is  a  point  which  is  sometimes  ignored  in 
a  very  masterly  manner.  Eliza  Burt  Gamble 
who  has  written  a  book  on  "  The  Evolution  of 
Woman.  An  Inquiry  into  the  Dogma  of  her 
Inferiority  to  Man,"  is  exceedingly  severe  on 
theologians,  priests,  and  missionaries,  by  whom 
she  considers  our  sex  has  been  held  in  subjec- 
tion. She  lays  great  stress  on  certain  material 
facts,  as,  for  example,  the  excess  of  male  births 
in  times  of  war,  famine,  or  pestilence ;  and  the 
excess  of  female  births  in  periods  of  peace 
and  plenty,  when  better  nutrition  brings  about 
this  higher  and  happier  result.  She  asserts 
that  there  are  more  male  than  female  idiots, 
and  that  reversions  to  a  lower  type  are  more 
common  among  men  than  women.  She  has  a 


.1    CURIOUS    CONTENTION.  221 

great  deal  to  say  about  the  ancient  custom  of 
wife-capture  as  a  token  of  female  superiority, 
and  about  the  supremacy  of  woman  in  all 
primitive  and  prehistoric  life,  a  supremacy 
founded  upon  her  finer  organization,  and  upon 
the  altruistic  principles  which  rule  her  eon- 
duct.  But  even  in  this  spirited  and  elaborate 
argument  no  attempt  is  made  to  put  side  by 
side  the  work  of  woman  and  of  man  ;  no  com- 
parison is  offered  of  their  relative  contri- 
butions to  civilization,  social  progress,  art, 
science,  literature,  music,  or  religion.  Yet 
these  are  the  tests  by  which  preeminence  is 
judged,  and  to  ignore  them  is  to  confess  a 
failure.  u  If  you  wish  me  to  believe  that  you 
are  witty,  I  must  really  trouble  you  to  make  a 
joke."  If  you  are  better  than  the  workers  of 
the  world,  show  me  the  fruits  of  your  labor. 

Against  this  reasonable  demand  it  is  urged 
that  never  in  the  past,  or  at  least  never  since 
those  pleasant  primitive  days,  of  which,  un- 
happily, no  distinct  record  has  been  preserved, 
have  women  been  permitted  free  scope  for 
their  abilities.  They  have  been  kept  down 
by  the  tyranny  of  men,  and  have  afforded 
through  all  the  centuries  a  living  proof  that 


222  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

the  strong  and  good  can  be  ruled  by  the  weak 
and  bad,  physical  force  alone  having  given  to 
man  the  mastery.  It  was  reserved  for  our 
generation  to  straighten  this  tangled  web,  and 
to  assign  to  each  sex  its  proper  limits  and 
qualifications.  The  greatest  change  the  world 
has  ever  seen  is  taking  place  to-day. 

"  However  full  the  air  may  be  of  other 
sounds,"  said  a  recent  lecturer  on  this  subject, 
"  the  cry  that  rises  highest  and  swells  the 
loudest  comes  from  the  throats  of  women  who 
in  the  last  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  of 
the  Christian  era  are  just  beginning  to  live. 
Men  cannot  appreciate  this  as  we  do.  From 
time  out  of  mind  they  have  used  their  brains 
and  their  instincts  as  they  chose,  and  they  can- 
not understand  the  ecstacy  we  feel  as  we 
stretch  the  limbs  which  have  been  cramped  so 
long.  What  does  it  matter  if  they  do  not? 
One  thing  is  sure.  New  wine  is  not  put  into 
old  bottles.  The  village  that  has  become  a 
city  does  not  return  to  its  villageship.  The 
man  does  not  put  on  the  child's  garments 
again.  So,  whether  men  hate  us  or  love  us, 
we  have  outgrown  the  cage  in  which  we  sang. 
The  woman  of  the  past  is  dead." 


A    CURIOUS    CONTKNTIOX.  223 

It  is  not  highly  probable  that  universal  hate 
will  ever  supplant  that  older  emotion  which 
must  be  held  responsible  for  the  existence  and 
the  circumstances  of  human  life.  But  "  the 
woman  of  the  past  "  is  a  broad  term,  and  ad- 
mits of  a  good  deal  of  variety,  The  chaste 
Susanna  and  Potiphar's  wife ;  Cornelia  and 
Messalina ;  Jeanne  d'Arc  and  Madame  de 
Pompadour  ;  Hannah  More  and  Aphra  Behn, 
these  are  divergent  types,  and  the  singing 
bird  in  her  cage  does  not  stand  very  distinctly 
for  any  of  them.  Humanity  is  a  large  factor, 
and  must  be  taken  into  serious  account  before 
we  assure  ourselves  too  confidently  that  the 
old  order  is  passing  away.  For  good  or  for 
ill,  women  have  lived  their  lives  with  some  ap- 
proach to  entirety  during  the  slow  progress  of 
the  ages.  It  can  hardly  be  claimed  that  either 
Cleopatra  or  St.  Theresa  was  cramped  by  con- 
finement out  of  her  broadest  and  amplest  de- 
velopment. 

Even  if  a  radical  change  is  imminent,  there 
is  no  reason  to  be  so  fiercely  contentious  about 
it.  Let  us  remember  Dr.  Watts,  and  be  paci- 
fied. Our  little  hands  were  never  made  to 
tear  each  other's  eyes.  It  is  possible  surely  to 


224  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

plead  for  female  suffrage  without  saying  spite- 
ful and  sarcastic  things  about  men,  especially 
as  it  is  not  their  opposition,  but  the  listless 
indifference  of  our  own  sex,  which  stands  be- 
tween the  eager  advocate  and  her  vote.  There 
is  still  less  propriety  in  permitting  this  angry 
sentiment  to  bias  our  conceptions  of  morality, 
and  we  pay  but  a  poor  tribute  to  woman  in 
assuming  that  she  should  be  privileged  to  sin. 
The  damnation  of  Faust  and  the  apotheosis  of 
Margaret  make  one  of  the  most  effective  of 
stage  illusions  ;  but  it  is  not  a  safe  guide  to 
practical  rectitude,  and  we  might  do  well  to 
remember  that  it  is  not  Goethe's  final  solution 
of  the  problem.  In  our  vehement  reaction 
from  the  stringent  rules  of  the  past,  we  are 
now  assuming  that  the  seven  deadly  sins  grow 
less  malignant  in  woman's  hands,  and  that  she 
can  shift  the  burden  of  moral  responsibility 
to  the  shoulders  of  that  arch  offender,  man. 
The  shameful  evidence  of  the  courts  is  bandied 
about  in  social  circles,  and  made  the  subject- 
matter  of  denunciatory  rhetoric  on  the  part 
of  those  whom  self-respect  should  silence.  It 
does  not  strengthen  one's  confidence  in  tho 
future,  to  see  the  present  lack  of  moderation 


A    CURIOUS    CO.VTl-:\T/0.\r.  225 

and  sanity  in  people  who  are  going  to  reform 
the  world.  When  wives  and  mothers  meet  to 
denounce  with  bitter  eloquence  the  immorality 
of  men,  and  then  ask  contributions  for  a  mon- 
ument to  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  "  who  suffered 
social  martyrdom  in  England  a  hundred  years 
ago,  for  advocating  the  rights  of  woman,"  one 
feels  a  little  puzzled  as  to  the  mental  attitude 
of  these  impetuous  creatures.  A  sense  of  hu- 
mor would  save  us  from  many  discouraging- 
outbreaks,  but  humor  is  not  a  common  attri- 
bute of  reformers.  It  is  the  peace-maker  of 
the  world,  and  this  is  the  day  of  contentions. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  ESSAY. 

IT  is  the  curious  custom  of  modern  men  of 
letters  to  talk  to  the  world  a  great  deal  about 
their  work ;  to  explain  its  conditions,  to  up- 
hold its  value,  to  protest  against  adverse  criti- 
cism, and  to  interpret  the  needs  and  aspirations 
of  mankind  through  the  narrow  medium  of 
their  own  resources.  A  good  many  years  have 
passed  since  Mr.  Arnold  noticed  the  grow- 
ing tendency  to  express  the  very  ordinary  de- 
sires of  very  ordinary  people  by  such  imposing 
phrases  as  "laws  of  human  progress"  and 
"  edicts  of  the  national  mind."  To-day,  if  a  new 
story  or  a  new  play  meets  with  unusual  appro- 
bation, it  is  at  once  attributed  to  some  sudden 
mental  development  of  society,  to  some  distinct 
change  in  our  methods  of  regarding  existence. 
We  are  assured  without  hesitation  that  all 
stories  and  all  plays  in  the  near  future  will  be 
built  up  upon  these  favored  models. 

To  a  few  of  us,  perhaps,  such  prophetic 
voices  have  but  a  dismal  rinjj.  We  listen  to 


THE  PAXMXV  or  THE  ESSA  r.        227 

their  repeated  cry,  "  The  old  order  passeth 
away,"  and  we  are  sorry  in  our  hearts,  having 
loved  it  well  for  years,  and  feeling  no  absolute 
confidence  in  its  successor.  Then  some  fine 
afternoon  we  look  abroad,  and  are  amazed  to 
see  so  much  of  the  old  order  still  remaining, 
and  apparently  disinclined  to  pass  away,  even 
when  it  is  told  plainly  to  go.  How  many 
times  have  we  been  warned  that  poetry  is 
shaking  off  its  shackles,  and  that  rhyme  and 
rhythm  have  had  their  little  day  ?  Yet  now, 
as  in  the  past,  poets  are  dancing  cheerfully 
in  fetters,  with  a  harmonious  sound  which  is 
most  agreeable  to  our  ears.  How  many  times 
have  we  been  told  that  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
novels  are  dead,  stone  dead  ;  that  their  grave 
has  been  dug,  and  their  epitaph  written  ? 
Yet  new  and  beautiful  editions  are  following 
each  other  so  rapidly  from  the  press,  that  the 
most  ardent  enthusiast  wonders  wistfully  who 
are  the  happy  men  with  money  enough  to  buy 
them.  How  many  times  have  we  been  assured 
that  realistic  and  psychological  fiction  has  sup- 
planted its  gay  brother  of  romance  ?  Yet 
never  was  there  a  day  when  writers  of  roman- 
tic stories  sprang  so  rapidly  and  so  easily  into 


228  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

fame.  Stevenson  leads  the  line,  but  Conan 
Doyle  and  Stanley  Weyman  follow  close  be- 
hind ;  while  as  for  Mr.  Rider  Haggard,  he 
is  a  problem  which  defies  any  reasonable 
solution.  The  fabulous  prices  paid  by  syndi- 
cates for  his  tales,  the  thousands  of  readers 
who  wait  breathlessly  from  week  to  week  for 
the  carefully  doled-out  chapters,  the  humiliat- 
ing fact  that  "  She"  is  as  well  known  through- 
out two  continents  as  "  Robert  Elsmere,"  - 
these  uncontrovertible  witnesses  of  success 
would  seem  to  indicate  that  what  people  really 
hunger  for  is  not  realism,  nor  sober  truthful- 
ness, but  the  maddest  and  wildest  impossibili- 
ties which  the  human  brain  is  capable  of  con- 
ceiving. 

And  so  when  I  am  told,  among  other  pro- 
phetic items,  that  the  "  light  essay  "  is  pass- 
ing rapidly  away,  and  that,  in  view  of  its  ap- 
proaching death-bed,  it  cannot  be  safely  recom- 
mended as  "  a  good  opening  for  enterprise,"  I 
am  fain,  before  acquiescing  gloomily  in  such 
a  decree,  to  take  heart  of  grace,  and  look  a 
little  around  me.  It  is  discouraging,  doubt- 
less, for  the  essayist  to  be  suddenly  informed 
that  his  work  is  in  articulo  mortis.  He  feels 


THE   rASS/X<;    (>!•'    TIII'l    KKSA  Y.  229 

as  a  carpenter  might  feel  were  he  told  that 
chairs  and  doors  and  tables  are  going  out 
of  fashion,  and  that  he  had  better  turn  his 
attention  to  mining  engineering,  or  a  new  food 
for  infants.  Perhaps  he  endeavors  to  explain 
that  a  great  many  chairs  were  sold  in  the 
past  week,  that  they  are  not  without  utility, 
and  that  they  seem  to  him  as  much  in  favor 
as  ever.  Such  feeble  arguments  meet  with 
no  response.  Furniture,  he  is  assured, — on 
the  authority  of  the  speaker,  —  is  distinctly  out 
of  date.  The  spirit  of  the  time  calls  for  some- 
thing different,  and  the  "  best  business  talent " 
—  delightful  phrase,  and  equally  applicable; 
to  a  window-frame  or  an  epic  —  is  moving  in 
another  direction.  This  is  what  Mr.  Lowell 
used  to  call  the  conclusive  style  of  judgment, 
"  which  consists  simply  in  belonging  to  the 
other  parish  ;  "  but  parish  boundaries  are  the 
same  convincing  things  now  that  they  were 
forty  years  ago. 

Is  the  essay,  then,  in  such  immediate  and 
distressing  danger  ?  Is  it  unwritten,  unpub- 
lished, or  unread?  Just  ten  years  have 
passed  since  a  well-printed  little  book  was 
offered  carelessly  to  the  great  English  public. 


230  77V   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

It  was  anonymous.  It  was  hampered  by  a 
Latin  title  which  attracted  the  few  and 
repelled  the  many.  It  contained  seven  of  the 
very  lightest  essays  that  ever  glided  into  print. 
It  grappled  with  no  problems,  social  or  spirit- 
ual ;  it  touched  but  one  of  the  vital  issues  of 
the  day.  It  was  not  serious,  and  it  was  not 
written  with  any  very  definite  view,  save  to 
give  entertainment  and  pleasure  to  its  readers. 
By  all  the  laws  of  modern  mentors,  it  should 
have  been  consigned  to  speedy  and  merited 
oblivion.  Yet  what  happened  ?  I  chanced  to 
see  that  book  within  a  few  months  of  its  pub- 
lication, and  sent  at  once  to  London  for  a 
copy,  thinking  to  easily  secure  a  first  edition. 
I  received  a  fourth,  and,  with  it,  the  comfort- 
ing assurance  that  the  first  was  already 
commanding  a  heavy  premium.  In  another 
week  the  American  reprints  of  u  Obiter  Dicta  " 
lay  on  all  the  book  counters  of  our  land.  The 
author's  name  was  given  to  the  world.  A 
second  volume  of  essays  followed  the  first ;  a 
third,  the  second ;  a  fourth,  the  third.  The 
last  are  so  exceedingly  light  as  to  be  little 
more  than  brief  notices  and  reviews.  All 
have  sold  well,  and  Mr.  Birrell  has  established 


THE   PASSING    OF    THE    ESSAY.  231 

—  surely  with  no  great  effort  —  his  reputation 
as  a  man  of  letters.  Editors  of  magazines  are 
glad  to  print  his  work ;  readers  of  magazines 
are  glad  to  see  it ;  newspapers  are  delighted 
when  they  have  any  personal  gossip  about  the 
author  to  tell  a  curious  world.  This  is  what 
"  the  best  business  talent "  must  call  success, 
for  these  are  the  tests  by  which  it  is  accus- 
tomed to  judge.  The  light  essay  has  a  great 
deal  of  hardihood  to  flaunt  and  flourish  in 
this  shameless  manner,  when  it  has  been 
severely  warned  that  it  is  not  in  accord  with 
the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  that  its  day  is  on  the 
wane. 

It  is  curious,  too,  to  see  how  new  and 
charming  editions  of  "  Virginibus  Puerisque  " 
meet  with  a  ready  sale.  Mr.  Stevenson  has 
done  better  work  than  in  this  volume  of  scat- 
tered papers,  which  are  more  suggestive  than 
satisfactory ;  yet  there  are  always  readers 
ready  to  exult  over  the  valorous  "  Admirals," 
or  dream  away  a  glad  half -hour  to  the  seduc- 
tive music  of  "Pan's  Pipes."  Mr.  Lang's 
u  Essays  in  Little  "  and  u  Letters  to  Dead 
Authors  "  have  reached  thousands  of  people 
who  have  never  read  his  admirable  translations 


232  IX   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

from  the  Greek.  Mr.  Pater's  essays  —  which, 
however,  are  not  light  —  are  far  better  known 
than  his  beautiful  "  Marius  the  Epicurean." 
Lamb's  "  Elia  "  is  more  widely  read  than  are 
his  letters,  though  it  would  seem  a  heart-break- 
ing matter  to  choose  between  them.  Hazlitt's 
essays  are  still  rich  mines  of  pleasure,  as  well 
as  fine  correctives  for  much  modern  nonsense. 
The  first  series  of  Mr.  Arnold's  "  Essays  in 
Criticism  "  remains  his  most  popular  book,  and 
the  one  which  has  done  more  than  all  the  rest 
to  show  the  great  half-educated  public  what  is 
meant  by  distinction  of  mind.  Indeed,  there 
never  was  a  day  when  by-roads  to  culture  were 
more  diligently  sought  for  than  now  by  people 
disinclined  for  long  travel  or  much  toil,  and 
the  essay  is  the  smoothest  little  path  which 
runs  in  that  direction.  It  offers  no  instruc- 
tion, save  through  the  medium  of  enjoyment, 
and  one  saunters  lazily  along  with  a  charming 
unconsciousness  of  effort.  Great  results  are 
not  to  be  gained  in  this  fashion,  but  it  should 
sometimes  be  play-hour  for  us  all.  Moreover, 
there  are  still  readers  keenly  alive  to  the  plea- 
sure which  literary  art  can  give  ;  and  the  essay- 
ists, from  Addison  down  to  Mr.  Arnold  an.l 


THE   PASSING    Or   THE    A'.S'.SM }'. 

Mr.  Pater,  have  recognized  the  value  of  form, 
the  powerful  and  persuasive  eloquence  of  style. 
Consequently,  an  appreciation  of  the  essay  is 
the  natural  result  of  reading  it.  Like  virtue, 
it  is  its  own  reward.  '"Culture,"  says  Mr. 
Addington  Symonds,  "  makes  a  man  to  be 
something.  It  does  not  teach  him  to  create 
anything."  •  Most  of  us  in  this  busy  world  are 
far  more  interested  in  what  we  can  learn  to  do 
than  in  what  we  can  hope  to  become  ;  but  it 
may  be  that  those  who  content  themselves 
with  strengthening  their  own  faculties,  and 
broadening  their  own  sympathies  for  all  that 
is  finest  and  best,  are  of  greater  service  to 
their  tired  and  downcast  neighbors  than  are 
the  unwearied  toilers  who  urge  us  so  relent- 
lessly to  the  field. 

A  few  critics  of  an  especially  judicial  turn 
are  wont  to  assure  us  now  and  then  that  the 
essay  ended  with  Emerson,  or  with  Sainte- 
Beuve,  or  with  Addison,  or  with  Montaigne,  — 
a  more  remote  date  than  this  being  inaccessi- 
ble, unless,  like  Eve  in  the  old  riddle,  it  died 
before  it  was  born.  Montaigne  is  commonly 
selected  as  the  idol  of  this  exclusive  worship. 
"•  I  don't  care  for  any  essavist  later  than  Mon- 


234  IN   THE   DOZY  HOURS. 

taigne."  It  has  a  classic  sound,  and  the  same 
air  of  intellectual  discrimination  as  another 
very  popular  remark  :  "  I  don't  read  any  mod- 
ern novelist,  except  George  Meredith."  Hear- 
ing these  verdicts,  one  is  tempted  to  say,  with 
Marianne  Dash  wood,  "  This  is  admiration  of 
a  very  particular  kind."  To  minds  of  a  more 
commonplace  order,  it  would  seem  that  a  love 
for  Montaigne  should  lead  insensibly  to  an 
appreciation  of  Sainte-Beuve  ;  that  an  appre- 
ciation of  Sainte-Beuve  awakens  in  turn  a 
sympathy  for  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold ;  that  a 
sympathy  for  Mr.  Arnold  paves  the  way  to  a 
keen  enjoyment  of  Mr.  Emerson  or  Mr.  Pater. 
It  is  a  linked  chain,  and,  though  all  parts  are 
not  of  equal  strength  and  beauty,  all  are  of 
service  to  the  whole.  "  Let  neither  the  pecu- 
liar quality  of  anything  nor  its  value  escape 
thee,"  counsels  Marcus  Aurelius ;  and  if  we 
seeM  our  profit  wherever  it  may  be  found,  we 
insensibly  acquire  that  which  is  needful  for 
our  growth.  Under  any  circumstances,  it  is 
seldom  wise  to  confuse  the  preferences  or 
prejudices  of  a  portion  of  mankind  with  the 
irresistible  progress  of  the  ages.  Rhymes 
may  go,  but  they  are  with  us  still.  Romantic 


THE   PASSING    OF    THE    tf.SNJ )'.  235 

fiction  may  be  submerged,  but  at  present  it  is 
well  above  water.  The  essay  may  die,  but 
just  now  it  possesses  a  lively  and  encouraging 
vitality.  Whether  we  regard  it  as  a  means 
of  culture  or  as  a  field  for  the  "  best  business 
talent,"  we  are  fain  to  remark,  in  the  words 
of  Sancho  Panza,  "  This  youth,  considering 
his  weak  state,  hath  left  in  him  an  amazing 
power  of  speech." 


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